


The Rights of Man

by scarlett_the_seachild



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Comedy, Fluff, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Underage Drinking, did you get the pun in the title it took me all night to think of it, tinderventure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-07-28 21:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16249943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: Laurens is lonely. Alexander just wants to have fun. Tinder can serve both their purposes."No strings attached, right?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at 1am as a break from an essay. it's pure unadulterated trash but i needed to refocus my mind on anything besides E. M. Forster. clearly i didnt do that good a job. Plus i'm a little bit of a sucker for "inexperienced Laurens meets slutty Alex" so basically this is just self-indulgence. 
> 
> due to recent circumstances I am feeling pretty friendly towards Tinder. 6 months time I might be deleting this but hey-ho, we'll see how it goes

Laurens would not, by any stretch of the imagination, call himself lonely.

I mean, sure. He gets those pangs of existentialism sometimes, when night creeps in between the slats of the blinds, plunging a room into a dusky-mauve stopped from being pitch only by the too-bright, artificial glow of a side lamp. Staying up too late watching Netflix, keeping one ear trained on the noises outside – car wheels on wet asphalt, drunken bar brawls, animals clawing for garbage – if only to detract from the maddening static buzz of silence behind the tinny speakers that might, if tuned in, only serve to amplify the doubts circulating round his skull: _What’s the point? What does it all mean? What are any of us truly doing here?_

But everyone gets that. To be _human_ is to get that. We’re born alone, we die alone – nothing morbid about it. Besides, to be ‘lonely’ implies to some degree that one is no longer satisfied with one’s own company, and Laurens _is._ Laurens is _plenty_ satisfied.

Or at least, he will be once he gets this video to load.

“Come on, fuck,” Laurens mutters, shivering a little in the cold of the room. Despite it being well into October, his roommate still refuses to increase the thermostat setting. Laurens would take the fall and pay for the heating himself, only he doesn’t want to give Ben the satisfaction of admitting he could afford to do that if he wanted to. His room is on the ground floor though, and it gets pretty freezing in the evenings. Also Laurens is only wearing boxers.

Also, Laurens’ hands are down them.

“Hey! Laurens man,” an urgent knock at the door just as the buffering sign stutters and drops.

Laurens swears, falling off his chair in his haste to pause the video. The door clatters open, revealing the perplexed face of Mulligan as he takes in the sight of Laurens rolling around on the floor, struggling to turn the screen of the laptop away from his line of vision and one hand still…yeah, you guessed it.

“Oh shit,” Mulligan says, at least having the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry, man.”

Lafayette’s tiny face pops up behind Mulligan’s shoulder. His eyes widen as he clasps a hand over his mouth, letting out a scandalised giggle between his fingers.

Laurens gets gingerly to his feet, scowling at the pair of them with as much dignity as he can muster. “You’re supposed to wait,” he snarls. “Until I say ‘come in’.”

Lafayette pulls a face. “I do not want to wait until you are comin’.”

Laurens sticks a middle finger up at him. Squawking with laughter, Mulligan makes for his desk. “What are you looking at?”

“Don’t-” Laurens makes a lunge for the laptop but it’s too late – in just two swift strides Mulligan has already crossed the tiny space and scooped it out of Laurens’ reach. He squints at the screen, ignoring his feeble protests as he reads the title of the video.

“A Room with a View nude bathing scene,” Mulligan wrinkles his nose, appalled. “What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t even watch real porn?”

“Give it back,” Laurens bats at him, clawing for his laptop. “Leave me alone.”

“John,” Lafayette sinks down on the bed, fixing him with the kind of look old people give their delinquent grandchildren. “It’s Friday night.”

“Yeah, and what?” Laurens retorts which, ok, was maybe not his best answer but whatever, it wasn’t a real question.

“So, you’re making me sad.” Lafayette gingerly nudges the debris of an empty packet of Cheese puffs out the way with his foot. “Put some clothes on. Come out with us.”

“Um,” Laurens appears to consider for approximately half a second. “No. Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Because I hate both of you,” Laurens supplies. “And because you’re going on a double date, which if I third wheeled, would be even more pathetic than what I was just doing now.”

“Nothing is more pathetic than what you were just doing now,” Mulligan pulls a face at the laptop where Rupert Graves’ dick is still on full display.

“The girls would not mind,” Lafayette insists. “We can go to Stars and Stripes after dinner.”

“Is that a gay bar? That sounds like a gay bar.”

“Why are you so afraid of gay people?” Mulligan demands challengingly.

“I’m afraid of anywhere that’s called ‘Stars and Stripes’.”

“Please Laurens,” Lafayette tugs on the hem of Laurens’ boxer briefs so that he has to dart away. “Let us set you up. Adrienne is a very good wing-person.”

“No thanks.”

“You can’t just sit here on you own.”

“I’m not on my own,” Laurens curses inwardly upon having to go to his last resort. “…Ben is here.”

Mulligan and Lafayette share a bored look, which, like, fair enough. The two of them have cohabited the same space since first year, and they can still go days on end without catching sight of each other. Weeks, even.

“Ben is with his boyfriend,” Mulligan tells him.

“So? I can hang out with him. It’s my house too,” Laurens sulks, crossing his arms over his chest. _“De plus_ the thermostat. You need to check the tenancy.”

“You need to quit cockblocking your roommate, and get some cock of your own,” Mulligan picks up Laurens’ phone from the desk. “Man-up, and download Tinder.”

Mulligan throws the phone at Laurens. It bounces off his chest and lands limply on the mattress. Laurens lets it lie, frowning up at Mulligan in affront. “Sexist.”

Mulligan points his finger at him. “Coward.”

“Hey,” Lafayette whacks Mulligan on the arm. “No name calling. We must be supportive. It is very embarrassing for Laurens to be scared of gay people.”

“I’m not scared of gay people!”

“You’re jerking off to literary film adaptations!”

“I _like_ the _narrative,_ ” Laurens snarls through gritted teeth.

Mulligan seems to wrestle with himself briefly deciding whether he’s going to respond to that before finally settling on another aggressive finger-wag.  

“Whatever,” he says childishly, turning away from the door. “Sort yourself out.”

“We will be back by 2!” Lafayette waves chirpily in parting, closing the door behind him on Laurens’ unenthusiastic grunt.

The silence rings heavy once their footsteps die away, the slam of the door reverberating through the walls, and Laurens feels something _(not_ loneliness) tighten in his chest. Whatever, no matter, Lord Jesus, we have peace at last. Dignified in his victory, Laurens decides to celebrate the restoration of calm by reaching once again for his laptop, settling back against the bed for some well-deserved me time.

For some reason or other however, the video just…isn’t doing it for him. Nor are any of the others he has bookmarked, and categorised neatly in chronological order. Instead there’s only the tightening in his chest, growing tauter and tauter like the translucent stretch of a plastic bag. Thwarted, Laurens leans back into the pillows, letting his arm dangle frustratedly over the side. His fingers brush the edge of his bedside table, moving instinctively for his phone. He picks it up, scrolls through the aps. Hesitates.

_Fuck it._

It downloads fast. _Scarily_ fast. Laurens barely has time to elaborately plan his bio before the nauseous pink flame is blossoming on his screen, commanding him to enter his details. He does so, heart thumping in his throat.

**Name:**

Well, that in itself is tricky. Only acquaintances call him John, and friends only in their tenderest moments. Would a Tinder date qualify as an acquaintance, or a friend? What’s the naming code for sexy-friends? Probably not surnames.

He puts ‘John’ down.

**Gender:**

Easier.

**Age:**

21 and still a virgin shout it from the roof _tops_

**Show me:**

_Oh God Oh God Oh God._ His hand actually shakes on the phone as he selects ‘Men’.

**Bio:**

Laurens chews his lip, thinking just a second before typing.

_90% lotr refs. i’ll give u a ring if u catch my eye_

Nice. Smart. Quirky guy with a good sense of humour and sound knowledge of pop-culture with just the right balance between smug and self-aware. Smashed it.

Now for the pictures. Searching through his library proves this part isn’t actually nearly as difficult as he had envisioned, on account of the fact that there are very few photos where he genuinely looks like a working human being. He selects a sizable close-up of his face so that people know what they’re getting into, one where he’s playing keyboard and one with Turtle because that’s what his past girlfriend seemed to be into and everyone likes musicians and dogs, right? Like that’s a thing?? It’s not gender-specific??

Fuck what if only girls like musicians and dogs

Whatever, no matter. Profile complete, Laurens breathes out a sigh of relief. The hard part is over. Now for the even _harder_ part. He starts tentatively, trying to peer deep into the soul of each profile and gather some sense of their individual aura before deciding to swipe left or right. It isn’t long before he figures out this isn’t the most economical use of his time. His thumb movements increase, figuring out from just a quick glance what he likes or doesn’t like from this tiny snippet of information. It’s pretty disillusioning pretty quickly, particularly as it dawns on him he’s much more superficial than he thought. Feeling a little grossed out, he narrows it down to three rules: No sunglasses. No _rifles._ No bare chests.

Ok, maybe _some_ bare chests.

It isn’t long before he starts getting matches. When the icon first appears on his screen, Laurens almost drops his phone with shock. The novelty wears off disappointingly quickly however upon first sight of some of the ice-breaking messages.

_> Hola! pretty boy i bet you taste like caramel chocolate:)_

_> Have you considered voting in the 2018 election? Brad Wenstrup is the best House candidate for the state of Ohio, click here to see his stance on important issues_

_> sit on my face_

“Oh WOW,” exclaims Laurens, resisting the temptation to turn his phone into the mattress. “Ok…yep. That is a penis…made from punctuation. Huh. Inventive.”

Inventive though it may be, it isn't exactly fertile ground for conversation and Laurens turns away to answer some of his less forward messages. He's matched with quite a few nice-looking guys, some of whom had introduced themselves with fairly normal greetings, and sends back equally normal, if bland and uninspired, replies.

Feeling rather like he's just accomplished a tremendous milestone, Laurens, content with the days’ work, is just about to switch off his phone and await the morning’s responses when a blue glow shoots across his screen.

**You’ve been Super-Liked.**

“What in the-?” Perplexed, Laurens opens the notification, scrolling obsessively through the various profiles until he finds one bordered with the same blue glow.

**Name: Alexander**

**Age: 20**

**Education: Columbia University**

Laurens peers at the first pic. It looks like a photo used for the front page of a college magazine, or a dentistry pamphlet. A preppy-looking kid with floppy hair in a 70s afro-mullet thing traipsing down the steps of the portico, face turned away from the camera and blazer thrown over one shoulder in a mock-candid pose. The caption reads:

_Virgin Islands- > NYC. aspiring law student. 5”6. sorry if that scares you._

_Hit me up for some fun (no strings pls its all wireless these days)_

“Haha,” says Laurens out loud. “That’s quite funny.”

He swipes through the other photos. A close up, displaying nice eyes, and a rather prominent nose. The next – a picture of him at a party, surrounded by girls. Looking at their arms, looped adoringly round his shoulders, Laurens wonders what his preference settings are.

The last one is a topless selfie. Laurens almost swipes left on principle, however something at the last moment holds him back. Maybe it's the angle of the camera, or the self-conscious way his chin tilts into the light, but there 's something about this particular display of unapologetic narcissism that doesn't cause the instinctive flicker of revulsion. Perhaps it's the slight curve above the boxers, symptomatic of a confidence Laurens can't help but admire.

Whatever. The guy's just Super-Liked him after all. All potential embarrassment is on him.

Laurens swipes right.

Five minutes later, he has a new message.

_Alexander: Ok so, Im just gonna tell you now_

_I have been staring at ur bio for about 20 minutes and am still no closer to understanding what it means and I super-liked you in the hope that u would explain._

_Wtf is a lotr? ring? Eye? Is that a joke_

Illogically, Laurens feels something deflate in his stomach. It's nothing but his pride, still he feels a little betrayed. Like the universe had got his hopes up making him think he was above-averagely desirable, only to make the come down all the more disheartening.

_John: its lord of the rings. u never heard of the eye of Sauron?_

_Alexander: OH_

_Uh no. Sorry. my bad, Im not big with pop culture_

_John: haha its cool_

It is so NOT COOL.

_John: im new to this. havent really figured out all the social kinks yet_

_Alexander: Mmm. well cute pics anyway. Makes up for the super nerdy caption_

_John: cant go wrong with a snap of a dog_

_Alexander: I mean, maybe for some. I’m more of a cat person. Anyway I was talking about you._

Warmth rushes into Laurens’ cheeks despite himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, seeking to displace the smile.

_John: not a waste of ur super-like?_

_Alexander: Not at all. Besides I have more. Tinder plus babyyy!!_

_John: wow. u rly must be a pro_

_Alexander: I rly must_

_So….._

_Im bored af. Wanna do sth?_

Laurens stares at the screen, heart hammering so hard he can feel it in his thumb. He looks at the door his friends has just left through. He looks at his laptop, now blank. He looks back at the screen.

He types: _y not_


	2. Chapter 2

_Alexander: Great!_

_U go Columbia too? Do you wanna meet at the SU_

_John: id prefer somewhere off campus if thats cool_

_Alexander: Ofc_

_In that case theres a bar near me? I’ll send u the location, lemme know if it’s out of ur way_

He sends the address and Laurens copy and pastes it into Google Maps. It’s about twenty minutes by public transport. He’s had lectures further away than that.

_John: looks good. gimme half an hour?_

_Alexander: *thumbs up*_

_See you soon_

_by the way, my hair is a little longer now than in my pic. Just in case u think Im catfishing or something_

_John: haha. i hardly think that would qualify_

_Alexander: don’t be so sure, you don’t know what I look like yet_

_In a bit_

Laurens puts down his phone. Thirty minutes. He has given himself half an hour to physically and mentally prepare for his first ever date with a guy he has never met before. In thirty minutes.

_What the living fuck am I doing._

No time to wonder about that now. Laurens grabs a pair of jeans and his least-stained-looking shirt, hesitating and wondering whether he should bother showering again. It’s a question which blows up in his mind into something greater than it is, panic stirring his gut as the connotations of what he’s about to do sink in.

 _Come on man,_ he says to himself. _It’s not like you’re seriously going to have sex with this guy._

But isn’t that what people do? Isn’t that what Tinder’s _for?_ What’s he supposed to do, have a drink with Alexander and then say “Sorry man, I know I trekked all the way across the city at night but I really am only here so that I could tell my friends I did something other than illegal streaming when they get back from their real, actual relationships”? He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t kick off at him for wasting his time. What if he gives him a bad rating on the ap? Can he do that? Is it like uber?

Whatever, whatever, whatever. It’s one drink, nothing deep. If he doesn’t want to, he never has to see this guy again.

He gets dressed. Grabs keys, phone and wallet. Heads out the door.

For the first time in maybe three days, Tallmadge it seems has actually taken it upon himself to leave his bedroom. He and his boyfriend are curled up on the sofa watching a very B-list looking animation. Neither look up as Laurens enters so he clears his throat obnoxiously.

“I’m going out,” he says when this does not prompt a reaction.

Ben spares Laurens a single glance over his shoulder before returning his attention to the screen. “We also need milk if you’re buying weed.”

“I’m not buying weed,” says Laurens with dignity. “I have a date.”

Both of them laugh which, hello. Very rude. “Be serious,” says Tallmadge and when Laurens says nothing, “With _who?”_

“Alexander,” Laurens replies. “From Tinder.”

 _That_ takes his interest. Tallmadge spins round to goggle reproachfully at Laurens over the top of the couch. “You got Tinder and you didn’t _tell me?”_

“You never care about anything I do,” Laurens argues.

Tallmadge doesn’t even bother to look indignant. “Fair point,” he concedes. “But if it’s a guy, I’m invested. How long have you been talking?”

“Uh,” Laurens cringes inwardly. “Five minutes?”

The silence that follows is more foreboding than anything else Laurens has done tonight.

“Dude,” says Tallmadge slowly. “Is this a beat and delete?”

“What? No,” Laurens snaps, then actually thinks about it. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really know what this guy’s looking for.”

“I thought he was scared of gay people,” the boyfriend mutters to Ben.

“Libel and slander, Caleb,” Laurens corrects him.

“It’s Nathan.”

“Really?” Laurens frowns. “I could have sworn it was Caleb.”

“Apparently, you have somewhere to be,” says Tallmadge, turning back to the terrible animation.                                                                   

“Yeah I do,” nods Laurens. “I’ll send you my location. If you don’t hear from me by eleven you can start scowling the streets. _Not_ because I’m scared of gay people,” he adds quickly before Nathan-not-Caleb can voice his input. “But because I’m wary of strangers, generally, and New York is a dangerous city.”

“Got it,” says Ben. “Let me know how it goes. Text ‘peanuts’ if you want me to call with a house emergency.”

“Will do,” says Laurens, grabbing his parker and exiting the apartment.

*

The bar is not actually that far from campus, but the location is less densely populated and much less student-y than Laurens had feared. Crammed into an off-street between a casino and a sleezy looking comedy club, it could very easily have been missed. Laurens breaths a sigh of relief upon entering the dimly lit space, mostly occupied by people a lot older than him. Not that he’s worried about being seen with another guy, or anything. Most of his friends are other guys. Nothing of interest in two guys having a drink on a Friday night. Still, news travels fast and Laurens doesn’t need his business being flashed around.

He scans the bar and, not seeing anyone who looks remotely like the Tinder pics, buys himself a pint. He drinks it quickly in an attempt to cool his swiftly heating skin. What if this is entirely a mistake? What if the guy _is_ a catfish, and in actual fact, a fifty-something murderer who specialises in luring closeted college kids? Or worse – a practical joke. The idea sends the beer curdling in Laurens’ stomach, to the extent that he very nearly gets up to leave.

Before he is fully able to commit to abandoning ship however, a movement from the door has his head jerking up. A short guy with curly hair, still in it’s afro-mullet thing, only its new length adds a sort of hippy-ish foppery which goes only too well with his slim blazer and chinos. Laurens is suddenly extremely self-conscious of his own clothing, wondering when was the last time he washed his jeans.

Alexander spots him more or less immediately. He doesn’t wave, but his lip quirks into an expectant half-smile. It’s not quite flirty, but not a mere pleasantry either. He strolls up to Laurens with his hands in his pockets, flashing a fuller smile as he approaches.

“John, right?” is the casual greeting. “Alexander Hamilton. Thanks for making it, I know it was short notice.”

He says the surname so assertively it sticks in Laurens’ mind, making it hard for him to disassociate from it.

“It’s cool,” Laurens replies, a little taken aback by how much he makes it sound like a business transaction. “I had nothing to do anyways.” _And why the fuck did you just admit that, are you a literal idiot, what the hell is wrong with you-_

“Good, you already got a drink,” Hamilton props his elbows up on the counter, turning his admittedly very charming smile on the bartender. “An Arrogant Bastard, please.” He winks secretively at Laurens as he passes over his ID, and Laurens finds himself briefly robbed of breath.

“Any preference?” he asks Laurens once his pint’s in hand. “I like to be able to see the door, but apart from that I’m not picky. Weird I know, you don’t have to say it. To be fair, nowadays it’s less to keep an eye out for rampant gunmen than past acquaintances, if you know what I mean. I frequent this place fairly regularly, it’s only safe. You never know who’s gonna walk in.”

“That’s true,” Laurens agrees because it seems like a pretty safe thing to say.

They sit down in the far corner, Laurens facing the window and Hamilton the exit. His eyes flicker towards it, face visibly relaxing as he lifts the beer to his lips.

“How do you like this place?” he asks Laurens, flashing that stupendous smile. “It’s not the swankiest, I know. But all the others near me are usually packed to the nines with students.”

“Yeah, no, it’s good,” says Laurens, taking a sip of his drink and wishing he could say something more interesting. “You come here a lot?”

 _He already said that, dipshit._ Luckily Hamilton only continues to smile, whether in sympathy or not Laurens would rather not know. “Pretty often, yeah,” and yep, there is definitely flirtation in that response. “It’s convenient. You know, for these type of dates.”

“Oh yeah,” Laurens grins. “I forgot you were a pro.”

Hamilton makes an assenting gesture. “I don’t half-ass anything,” he replies, voice tinged with amusement. “What about you? Is this your first Tinder meet?”

Laurens nods, admitting: “I only just downloaded it tonight.”

“Wow. That’s fast work,” Hamilton leans back in his chair, gaze flickering briefly up and down Laurens in a way that makes him feel suddenly very warm. “You _must_ be bored.”

Laurens shrugs, very aware that he’s blushing. “Thought it was about time I embarked on a new experience.”

“You don’t say,” Hamilton hums interestedly, taking a coy sip of his beer. “Damn, I’m under pressure now. Feel like I’m repping singlehandedly.”

Laurens laughs. “Nah, you’re good,” he wracks his brains, trying to think of a way to derail the conversation away from his (lack of) sex life. “So, you wanna do law, huh? What do you study?”

“Economics and Politics,” says Hamilton immediately. “You?”

“Undeclared,” Laurens replies. “I like Chemistry and Biology. I was toying with the idea of applying for vet school, but my dad wants me to go into law so I’ll probably just end up doing that.”

Hamilton wrinkles his nose, whether in response to Laurens’ preferred subjects or his father’s influence he couldn’t say. “I could have guessed that,” he says. “You look like someone who wants to work with animals.”

Surprised, Laurens quirks his eyebrow. “Is that a good thing…?”

“Yeah it’s a good thing,” Hamilton shrugs. “I mean, not _my_ thing. But it’s nice. It’s a good vibe to give off. You look like someone who should be in Tanzania, wrapped in camouflage and doctoring a cheetah’s foot, or something.”

“Thanks,” says Laurens, pleased with himself and his vibe.

“You have a dog, right?”

“Ya, a leonberger.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a big fucking dog.”

 “What’s its name?”

“Turtle.”

Hamilton splutters, very nearly snorting out his beer. Laurens watches, grinning as he wipes his mouth. “Oh my God.”

“I was a kid when I named him,” Laurens explains. “My dad thought it was funny.”

“No justification necessary,” Hamilton assures him. “That is amazing. What would you call a pet turtle? Leonberger?”

“Close. Leonardo,” and when Hamilton stares blankly at him. “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”

Hamilton pulls a face. “Is that another obscure nerd thing?”

“Come on man,” Laurens spreads his palms. “Neither Lord of the Rings or TMNT is obscure. Nerd culture is literally dominating the markets. If anything, I’m mainstream.”

Hamilton concedes the point with a bob of his head. “Touché,” he accepts. “Guess I’m just outta the loop. I didn’t watch a lot of TV growing up. Never really got into it.”

“What did you do instead?”

Hamilton shrugs. “Read,” he says. “Play piano. Swim.”

“Sounds idyllic.”

Hamilton laughs hollowly. “It was anything but,” he answers, face suddenly a little shadowed. “But yeah, I mean. We didn’t have cable.”

“You’re from the Caribbean, right?”

“That’s not why we didn’t have cable.”

“I meant,” Laurens flushes ashamedly. “That’s really cool. I mean, it must have been really different moving to New York.”

Hamilton shrugs again. “A lot of people like to go far away for college,” he replies vaguely, drumming his fingers on the surface of the table. “What about you? Where are you from?”

“South Carolina,” says Laurens, recognising the desire to change the subject and rolling with it.

“Aaand…?”

Laurens rolls his eyes. “My mom was Afro-Boricua.”

Hamilton cocks his head, frowning a little. “‘Was’?” he repeats.

Laurens nods. “She died when I was younger.”

The frown deepens. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Laurens automatically.

“My mom died too.”

Laurens’ eyes widen as he takes in the matter-of-fact delivery of the words. “Shit,” he exhales. “I’m sorry.”

Hamilton smiles again, only wry this time. “It’s fine.”

A silence follows, prevented from being awkward only by the fact of Hamilton looking challengingly at him over the rim of his glass, the corner of his mouth quirked. Feeling a little flustered, Laurens searches round for something else to say.

“So…” he draws out. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

Hamilton laughs, and if there was any tension it’s gone in seconds. “No John,” he says. “I don’t have any brothers and sisters. Do you?”

Laurens nods. “Four.”

“Jeez, that’s a lot. I envy you. Are you close?”

Laurens pulls a face. “I guess,” he replies uncomfortably. “Sometimes. It can be annoying.”

“I hear you. Three of my best friends are all sisters. They love each other, but they fight a lot. I guess that’s the closest I’ve got.”

Laurens thinks back to the girls in his Tinder profile and wonders, not without optimism, whether there’s any connection.

They talk for a long time. Hamilton is a good conversationalist – talkative and _smart_ – smart like he knows it, smart like Laurens wishes he was. He talks a lot, seems to revel in the sound; not out of self-love (although that’s there) but because he’s genuinely so interested in what he’s saying. It’s…refreshing. Laurens spends most of his time with people like Lafayette and Mulligan and Tallmadge and they’re not _cynics,_ exactly, but they do have an unfortunate habit of making Laurens feel aware of himself. But Hamilton, when he gets going, is so blissfully unaware it’s almost like he exists purely in the words, like there’s a sense of him outside of his own body. Pure confidence. Laurens can’t lie. It’s exhilarating.

He learns two pints later, bought by each of them consecutively, that Hamilton is riding a full scholarship, and that he balances his time mostly between studying and serial Tinder-ing. He talks about his past dates as freely as he does the electoral campaigns he’s worked on and his plans for the future. And the freer his words become, the more Laurens desperately wants to know how he tallies next to them. It’s hard to picture their orbits crossing in real life; Hamilton, who is clearly so driven and charismatic and Laurens, who can barely see beyond the horizon of graduation and just three hours ago had been fully committed to an evening of pop tarts and masturbation. Still, as the time goes past so easily and the third beer leaves a ring of condensation on the table, it’s hard not to hope.  

Even more so when eventually, Hamilton sets down his empty glass. He looks across the table, giving Laurens that same heavy-lidded, sultry look over the rim.

“This place is closing soon,” he says, very casually. “If you want, you can come back to mine. It’s like, five minutes away.”

Laurens swallows, glancing down at his hands. “Ya okay,” he says, faintly, as if to himself. “Sure. Why not.”

“Why not,” Hamilton repeats, amused. “Exactly.”

He gets up, a little unsteady on his feet, shouldering on his blazer. Laurens reaches for his parker, fingers bunching around the material as if it were a life raft. They leave the bar, Hamilton with a cheery word of parting for the tenders, and step out into the night.

They don’t make much conversation on the way, except for idle small talk. Laurens, aware of the alcohol charging through his system, suddenly feels everything with a bright, vivid intensity, from the glare of the streetlamps to their watery reflection in the gutter. The air is cool, tingling against his sweaty palms. Hamilton walks jauntily, hands deep in the pockets of his chinos. He looks almost like he should be whistling.

They reach the squat block of flats that mark out Hamilton’s accommodation. Hamilton enters with his fob, then takes the stairs two at a time, making Laurens jog a little to keep up with him. A short walk along the hallway and, after a brief wrestle with the door, they’re in Hamilton’s room.

Hamilton chucks his keys onto a side table and strides in, giving Laurens a second to take in his surroundings. There’s not one single surface that isn’t covered with textbooks or notes, stationary strewn in half-hazard leaning towers amongst the chaos. Hamilton kicks off his shoes and Laurens does the same out of politeness, though it’s somewhat of a wasted battle being concerned about mess.

Then Hamilton turns to look at him. In the darkness, despite the bewitching fuddle of alcohol, his eyes are bright and sharp, boring into Laurens with a new intensity. Laurens’ mouth is dry. He opens it to say something. But before he can decide what, Hamilton’s is on him.

Struggling to adjust from the shock, Laurens almost pulls back. But then Hamilton’s hand reaches to clasp at the back of his neck and he finds himself leaning in, breathing in Hamilton like this was what he had been waiting for all evening. Alexander makes a pleased sound, sliding his tongue into Laurens’ mouth, and Laurens’ brain short-circuits. The rough drag of stubble, the chase of beer on his lips, all of it so heady and intoxicating he feels half drunk with it, and by the time they break apart his head is spinning.

“Mmft,” Hamilton pulls away, grinning at Laurens with his hands on his chest. “I had a feeling you’d be a good kisser.”

In response, Laurens chases his lips. Hamilton laughs, meeting them again and sliding his body against him. He’s little and hard and firm and Laurens just wants to _touch_ him, hold him, anything to assuage this unbearable burning swiftly taking over his whole body.

“What do you wanna do?” Hamilton whispers against his ear once they part again.

 _I want to wrap you up in kisses and pet your soft, pretty hair._ “Whatever you want,” Laurens breathes.

Hamilton smiles. It knocks Laurens so off kilter, he’s 90% sure he’s going to be seeing double for days.

“Get on the bed,” he says, and takes off his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo thanks so much for the great feedback on the first chapter! be rewarded with some M+ rated flirtation (and possibly more next chapter)
> 
> readers of my other thing there will be an update this week but atm i only have the energy for garbage :(


	3. Chapter 3

“Unless you don’t want to?” Hamilton asks concernedly when ten seconds have passed and Laurens has done nothing but stare.

Laurens shakes his head hurriedly. “No, I-” clears his throat. Smiles abashedly. “I’m just sort of new at this stuff.”

Hamilton cocks his head. “New at…stuff with a guy, or new to stuff full stop?”

A nervous squirming in Laurens’ stomach. “Stuff full stop.”

He holds his breath, heart hammering as he waits for Hamilton’s face to fall, or for him to look embarrassed. Neither happens. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“God dude,” Hamilton huffs, running a hand through his hair. “You got me repping Tinder _and_ sex? You’re putting me under a lot of stress here.”

Laurens laughs, delighted and relieved at the break in tension. “No pressure,” he assures him. “If anything, you should be happy I’ve got nothing to compare to.”

“Fair point,” Hamilton agrees. “Okay no worries, we’ll put a hold on sticking anything in. Tell me if you want to slow down.”

Laurens nods quickly. “Alright,” he says, heart ironically speeding right the fuck up as Hamilton puts his hands on his shoulders and leans in to kiss him again, driving him gently back towards the bed.

Laurens’ knees buckle as they hit the frame and he goes with it, falling onto the mattress with a slight bounce. His heart’s pounding so hard he feels like it’s about to collapse his chest; he can hear it throbbing in his ears as Hamilton reaches up to flit his thumb along his jaw, sucking lightly at his bottom lip before sliding in his tongue. Laurens opens his mouth wider, inhaling sharply at the sudden wet heat. Hamilton hums encouragingly, rubbing his hand along the side of his neck, thumb digging sharply into the angle of his cheekbone as he guides them together.

They kiss for a long time – long enough for Laurens to start craving more, long enough for the warmth of Hamilton’s mouth to spread through to the very pits of his stomach and lower down to his groin. He can feel himself filling out already, cock stiffening further when Hamilton slides his hand under Laurens’ shirt, running a finger cheekily along his waistline.

“Nice abs,” whispers Hamilton, bending forward to nip at his ear.

“Thank you,” says Laurens breathlessly.

“Mind if I take a closer look?”

Laurens snorts out a laugh. “Will you quit with the corny lines?”

“I make no promises.”

“Go for it.”

Hamilton lifts Laurens’ shirt over his head. Laurens hears him breathe in sharply, eyes widening as they rove over his torso. Laurens tries, and fails, not to feel to pleased with himself. Hamilton runs his hands over Laurens’ chest, pressing him down until he’s laying flat against the mattress. He kisses Laurens’ neck, biting and sucking in a way that makes Laurens moan while with the other hand he flits lower and lower, until it’s just skirting the skin beneath Laurens’ navel.

Hamilton pulls his mouth away from his neck, wrenching out a high gasp from Laurens’ throat. Laurens stares, pupils blown to the size of saucers as he locks eyes with Hamilton. They’re heavily lidded, hazy with desire, boring down on Laurens like he could swallow him whole. Laurens feels like all the oxygen has been robbed from his lungs. He holds the gaze, pulse fluttering erratically, all his instincts peaked – yet he almost thinks it would be more dangerous to look away.

“You’re really something lovely,” Hamilton tells him.

Laurens swallows dryly. Then Hamilton unbuttons his fly, sliding his hand beneath the waistband to rub at the base of his cock and he gasps, then groans.

*

In the morning, he wakes with his head feeling heavy, his muscles loose. He blinks the cobwebs from his eyes, sluggish brain taking a second to comprehend where he is. Catching sight of the piles of books teetering in precarious columns, he thinks for a second that he’s fallen asleep in the library (wouldn’t be the first time.) But then Hamilton walks in carrying two cups of coffee and the evening comes back to him in pin-point, high-definition clarity.

“Morning,” says Hamilton chirpily, handing him a mug. “How did you sleep?”

“Pretty well actually,” Laurens says with surprise, more so because testing out the give of the mattress results in, like, five hundred springs rising up in resistance.

Hamilton sips his coffee. He’s wearing a black button-down and pants, his hair wet and neatly combed. Laurens is in awe when and how he managed to get dressed so fast.

 “Listen,” he says, setting his mug down on a tiny patch of escaped surface. “Not to kick you out or anything, but my friend is coming to give me a lift to work soon.”

“Oh,” says Laurens, cheeks flushing a little. “Right. Ok. Cool.”

“Sorry – that came out brusque.”

“Nah, it’s ok. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Hamilton flashes him _that_ smile, and Laurens feels a little jolt of something squirm behind his navel.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, getting up to go. “Sorry I can’t offer you breakfast. I would, but I have literally nothing.”

“It’s fine,” Laurens says, but Hamilton is already out the door.

Laurens huffs, running his hand through his hair and looking around flusteredly for his clothes. Eventually finding them he pulls them on quickly, tripping into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. He inhales the rest of his coffee, his blood rushing in a way he thinks has only partially to do with the coffee, before grabbing his things and heading out the dorm.

In the hallway Hamilton stands waiting for him, playing casually with his keys. He’s wearing a faded green coat over his black work clothes. For some reason, this combination provides the catalyst for the words that fall out of Laurens’ mouth:

“You look very Slytherin.”

_What the FUCK._

Hamilton erupts with laughter, and is still laughing as they trip down the stairs towards the exit.

“I gotta tell you,” he says, pausing at the gate to fish out his fob. “You’re the first one of my hook-ups to try and figure out my Hogwarts House.”

“I just said you _looked_ Slytherin,” replies Laurens defensively, aware that his face is burning Gryffindor-red right now. “Cos of the coat. And the…you know.” He tries to reproduce Hamilton’s elegant coolness when playing with his keys. “…Nonchalance.”

Hamilton smirks. “Nonchalance,” he repeats. “Right. Got it.”

Before Laurens has the chance to dig himself even deeper into humiliation, a car draws up in front of them. Hamilton waves cheerfully, oblivious to Laurens’ eyes widening in horror as the door opens and the driver gets out, eyes narrowing sceptically as he peers through the gate. “…Laurens?”

“Fuck,” whispers Laurens.

Hamilton’s head whips around, brow furrowed as he stares demandingly at him. “You two know each other?”

Laurens jerks his head. “We’re friends,” he says tightly.

Hamilton’s mouth forms into a little ‘o’. Mulligan continues to look confused, gaze darting between them like he’s following a game of tennis.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “How do you know Hamilt- _oh.”_

Comprehension washes over Mulligan’s face like morning breaking over the roof of the apartment building behind them.

Hamilton claps Laurens briefly on the shoulder. “Time to go,” he says. “Thanks for last night. I had fun.”

“Yeah, me too,” Laurens mumbles, very deliberately not meeting Mulligan’s questioning stare.

Hamilton opens the gate, rushing into the car with a parting wave. Mulligan climbs back in beside him, his gaze remaining fixed on Laurens. Slowly, he shakes his head, face breaking into a delighted smirk which Laurens reads as easily as if he had been wearing a sign around his neck: We are _talking_ about this.

They back out the carpark, disappearing down the street. Laurens groans, dropping his face into his hands before beginning the journey back to his.

*

“WE ARE _TALKING_ ABOUT THIS!” Mulligan shouts, barrelling through the door and knocking several framed posters from the walls, sending Tallmadge flying after them with a scream of _“Not Madonna!”_

Laurens’ head whips up from where he and Lafayette had been beating eggs over the counter. Lafayette looks at him quizzically. “Talking about what?”

“YOU,” Mulligan flings an accusing finger at Laurens. “HOOKED UP WITH _ALEX HAMILTON.”_

“You did _what?”_ Tallmadge demands, spinning around in shock after making sure Madge is safely restored to proper glory.

“I told you last night,” Laurens reminds him.

“You told me you were seeing someone called _Alexander._ Not as in _Alexander Hamilton.”_

“I didn’t _know_ he was ‘Alexander’ as in ‘Alexander Hamilton’,” responds Laurens crossly. “Anyway, what’s so important about that? He’s just a guy I _met.”_

“‘Just a guy you met’,” Hercules mumbles into his hands, currently splayed over his face. “I can’t believe you banged my best friend.”

“Hello?” Lafayette waves his wooden spoon, sending flecks of egg yolk flying. “Would someone be so kind as to give me some exposition? You know I cannot stand a discordant narrative. Also, what the fuck. Best friend.”

“I met him when he first came to New York,” Mulligan explains. “Coming out of the airport, he was about to get fleeced by some taxi driver. I gave him a lift and he stayed at mine for a few weeks while he sorted his shit, got him a job and everything. Come to think of it, maybe kind of set a precedent there.”

“And you _banged_ him?” Lafayette turns on Laurens with violence, brandishing his spoon. “Last _night?”_

“Okay, can we maybe cool it on the abrasive colloquialisms?” Laurens winces sharply.

“How did this happen? I thought you were staying in!”

“Ya…well,” Laurens feels the heat rise into his cheeks, he turns back to the stove to avoid his friends’ gaze. “My plans changed.”

“Your plans… _changed?”_

“He got Tinder,” Tallmadge translates.

Both Mulligan and Lafayette ogle, wide-eyed, at him. “You got _Tinder?!”_

“Look,” says Laurens, setting down his whisk impatiently. “Is this going to be the set up for the rest of the dialogue? Because if so, I’d like to know in advance.”

“I cannot believe this. You downloaded Tinder, after months of resistance, _and_ had sex with someone on the same night? I need more information. Is he good-looking?”

Laurens and Mulligan reply ‘yes’ as Tallmadge says ‘no’. Laurens and Mulligan stare disbelievingly at Ben, who shrugs. “I don’t see it. He looks like a girl, and he has a forehead the size of Mars.”

“You have to meet him in person,” Mulligan says at the same time as Laurens says “You have to see him in action.”

“This is so much to take in,” Lafayette complains after Laurens is done wishing he could die. “I need to sit down.”

“We haven’t finished the crostini.”

“I’m too tired,” Lafayette replies, wiping a shaky hand over his forehead. “The knowledge of your loss of virginity has taken it all out of me. Also I am very hungover, and might be sick.”

“How was it?” asks Mulligan suddenly.

Laurens looks boredly at him. “Right, because I’m definitely going to give you details now that I know you _know_ him.”

“You _have_ to give me details,” Mulligan frowns in protest. _“Because_ you know I know him.”

“Everyone knows him,” Tallmadge adds.  

“I don’t know him,” says Lafayette.

“What’s his name?”

“Alexander Hamilton?”

“There you go.”

“Oh! Touché.”

“Why does everyone know him?” asks Laurens uncomfortably. “Is he…notorious, or something?”

Mulligan and Tallmadge exchange an iffy look.

Laurens’ spirits fall like, six feet. “Great,” he mutters darkly to himself, beating the eggs with renewed vigour. “Great…that’s just…that’s great.”

“If it’s any consolation, no one’s ever called him a fuckboy,” Mulligan says reasonably. “He doesn’t mess around, he just hooks up with people. He doesn’t really have the time or patience for anything else.”

“People still get hurt feelings though,” Tallmadge points out. “I know people who have got hurt feelings.”

Mulligan looks sceptically at him. “What people?”

Ben shrugs evasively. “People.”

“Well, anyway,” says Laurens abruptly, reaching for an avocado and slicing it with his knife. “It doesn’t matter. We only met up once. If I haven’t bumped into him before now, I probably won’t see him again.”

“Let’s have him over,” chirps Lafayette.  

Mulligan and Laurens frown at him.

“Probably a good call, man,” Mulligan claps Laurens fraternally on the shoulder, ignoring Lafayette. “I like Alex a lot, but he has a lot of shit going on. And while I don’t claim to be as in the know as _Benjamin_ here, he’s not exactly the kind of guy to take on the burdens of other people, if you get what I’m saying.”

“Yeah,” Laurens replies, quietly resuming the cutting of the avocado. “Yeah, I hear you.”

*

Laurens is not expecting to hear from Hamilton again. If nothing else, the polite but fairly unceremonious way he had sent Laurens packing had been a pretty clear indicator of his intentions. What’s more is he had basically stated the same, several times in fact, during the course of the evening. Alexander worked, studied, and hooked up with people. Laurens was just the latest in a very long, well-documented line. They’d met on Tinder, for God’s sake. If that wasn’t a sign of what he was looking for, then Laurens didn’t know what was.

Laurens knows all this. Still, he can’t help but feel the disappointment increase with every day that goes past without a message from Hamilton.

Whatever, no matter. Laurens drives it from his mind – focuses on checking out other guys. He hasn’t really allowed himself to do it before, not deliberately anyway, not with intent. But things have changed since hooking up with Hamilton. He feels bolder, more confident. Desirable, even. It’s a new feeling – vulnerable and tentative, and, like a muscle, in need of flexing.

“No,” says Lafayette bluntly, when Laurens’ gaze trails after a tall guy in a trench-coat, buying a sandwich at the café counter.

“Why not?” asks Laurens defensively.

“He looks like he belongs in a noir film. And _not_ a very good one _._ ”

“Maybe that’s The Vibe,” Laurens shrugs, grabbing a bag of pretentious looking chips. “Maybe he’s a troubled soul with a mysterious background, ready to risk it all on One Last Dance.”

Lafayette looks him up and down. “Your legs do go on for days.”

“Thanks,” says Laurens.

“Anyway,” continues Lafayette. “I don’t know why you do not just see where things go with one of your matches. Some of them are very attractive.”

“Eh,” Laurens shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s fun talking to people and all, but it’s kind of lost its appeal.”

“But you had a good time on your first meet.”

Hamilton’s mouth, smug and quirked in its insufferable grin, even when wrapped around Laurens’ cock.

“Ya, it was fine,” says Laurens.

They reach the counter. Laurens tosses down his chips. “Black Americano please,” he parrots automatically, rubbing tired eyes.

“Well _this_ is awkward.”

Laurens’ eyes snap open.

Hamilton is standing behind the till, dressed in a bright green barista’s apron. His long hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail; still, Laurens would recognise that mischievous glint in from any one of his waking fantasies.

“Guess I don’t need to ask if you want sugar,” Hamilton says, completely deadpanned. “Since I already gave you that.”

“Ha Ha,” Laurens chokes, genuinely unable to force anything else past the screaming in his ears.

“How are you?” Hamilton smiles, and the painful tautness in Laurens’ chest eases a little.  

“I’m good,” Laurens manages with tremendous effort. “I didn’t know you worked here. When did you start?”

Hamilton gives him a look. “Uh…last semester.”

Laurens’ mouth falls open. “What.”

“I’m pun guy,” says Hamilton, waving at the chalk board behind him where _Just Brew It_ is scrawled alongside an obnoxious tick.

“You’re pun guy,” Laurens breathes, the revelation crashing over him. “Of _course.”_

“What is taking so long?” Lafayette grumbles, appearing at Laurens’ shoulder. “You always order the same thing. Bonjour, Alexander.”

“Hey Laff,” Hamilton greets him, gesturing at the jar to his right. “How ya _bean?”_

Laurens’ mouth falls open as Lafayette immediately dissolves into cackling.

“You…” Laurens stammers, brain struggling over this new adjustment. “You…know him?”

“But of course,” Lafayette frowns. “He is the pun guy.”

“How are things?” Lafayette asks Hamilton as he punches in his order.

“Yeah okay,” Hamilton shrugs. “I got a _latte_ do but you know me. Keeping _on top_ of it.”

He sneaks another look at Laurens, who feels himself blush.

“1.50,” Hamilton tells Laurens, handing him his coffee.

Laurens squints at the board. “It says 2.75.”

Hamilton responds with a wink. “Call it a _fair trade.”_

Laurens cheeks flush harder, as much at the pun as the insinuation behind it. He counts out his cash and hands it to Hamilton, pulse leaping in his wrist as their fingers brush.

Lafayette and Hamilton chat idly as he places his order. Meanwhile Laurens stands anxiously, moving his weight from one foot to the other. Finally, Lafayette moves over, coffee in hand. Laurens gestures at him to find a table before jumping back over to the counter before the next customer can slide in.

“Hey,” he says, blood pounding over the sound of his hurried undertone. “I was thinking…could I maybe have your number?”

At once, Hamilton’s face shutters down. “Why?” he asks bluntly.

Heat crawls up the back of Laurens’ neck. He fights past it. “I just,” clears his throat. Starts again. “I had a really nice time with you the other night. I was wondering if you’d maybe wanna meet up again sometime? As a casual thing, I mean.”

Hamilton’s expression gives way a little, although he still looks at Laurens distrustfully. “I can just message you on the app.”

“Yeah, but,” Laurens shrugs bashfully. “Call me old-fashioned, I just think it’s nicer if we do it this way. Plus, it makes sense, since we’re not exactly strangers anymore. You can say no,” he adds quickly, already regretting his decision. “But…I don’t know. I like you. Just thought I’d…you know,” he gestures at the coffee machine. “Take a _shot.”_

Despite itself, Hamilton’s face relaxes, a wry smile nudging his mouth reluctantly as he shakes his head. “‘Take a shot’,” he repeats with amusement. “Wow. You have me there. Alright, fuck it. Why not.”

He takes a pen from behind his ear (who keeps a _pen_ behind their ear) and scrawls his number down on a napkin.

“No strings attached, right?” he says, sliding it across the counter to Laurens.

“Right,” Laurens accepts.

Hamilton nods. “See you au lait-er,” he says.

“What were you doing?” asks Lafayette as Laurens takes a seat, Hamilton’s number in his pocket and a shit-eating grin on his face.

Instead of replying, Laurens jerks his head at the counter. “That’s Alexander Hamilton.”

For a moment, Lafayette looks like he’s having trouble translating. _“That’s_ Alexander Hamilton?”

“Yes.”

“Pun guy?”

“Yes.”

“The guy you slept with?”

“Yes.”

Lafayette looks aghast. “You think _he’s_ attractive?”

“Don’t you?”

Lafayette looks back towards the till, just as Laurens very unsubtly happens to be doing the same. Hamilton glances up, and their eyes lock. He smiles, giving Laurens another wink before turning to serve the next customer.

“Ohh,” says Lafayette understandingly, lifting his coffee to his lips. “Yes. I see. Okay. Fair enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton WISHES he was Slytherin
> 
> where i got the headcanon that Laurens and Lafayette make fancy food and brunches together i have no idea but it's a sword i'm willing to die on now 
> 
> also pfft 4 chapters, literally who was i kidding


	4. Chapter 4

Laurens decides to wait three days before messaging Hamilton. It’s an unwritten law that that’s the socially accepted formality for an okay-amount of time. It’s essentially Biblical, in fact. A day earlier or later would have been almost impolite.

Except…that he doesn’t get a text back.

Hours later, in the evening, Laurens is still feeling pretty good. Thinking about it, it would have been pretty lucky for Hamilton to reply the same day. He knows he has a busy schedule. He could be studying. He could be at work. He could just be tired, or not in the mood, or just wanted to wait till the morning. Not a big deal. Laurens switches off his phone, goes to bed calmly.

By mid-morning the next day, a tremor of uncertainty has kicked in. He tries not to think about it and goes about his business, ignoring his phone burning a hole in the back of his pants.

Two days later, he’s strongly considering leaving the country.

“I mean, I did tell you,” Mulligan says fairly, which actually is pretty much the last thing Laurens needs to hear right now, thanks very much.

“But why,” Laurens squints at a generous glass of whiskey Tallmadge had shoved unceremoniously into his hand. “Why would he give me his number, and then _not_ reply? I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I love this,” says Tallmadge matter-of-factly, falling onto the couch and crossing one leg over the other. “You have no idea how affirming it is to see you experience what it’s like to deal with girls.”

“I…what?” Laurens frowns at him, already a little drunk but pretty sure Ben has his facts wrong. “He’s…not?”

Tallmadge shrugs. “Same process though,” he says. “The whole courtship thing. The mating ritual. The whole ‘will-they-won’t-they-why-aren’t-they’.”

“You’re dating a guy.”

“Yeah, _now._ So?”

“So you could have just said what it’s like to date,” Laurens tells him. “You didn’t have to gender it.”

“I’m just _saying._ Normally it’s always you smugly watching us jump through hoops for some chick. It’s refreshing.”

“I dated a girl,” Laurens protests, looking at Lafayette for clarification. “Martha. She was nice.”

“Yes. I think I saw you hold hands once,” Lafayette nods in confirmation.

“Christ,” Mulligan pulls a face, downing his glass. “I hope you wore protection.”

“Didn’t you only go out with her because her father was big in coal, or some shit?”

“No,” Laurens retorts. “She was _nice_. She taught me how to skateboard.” He takes a sip of his whiskey, considers. “She did really talk about coal a lot, though.”

“Did he even give you a real number?” Tallmadge frowns at the napkin Laurens totally has not been carrying around all day like some sort of white flag. “I mean, are you sure this is even his?”

Laurens groans, dropping his head into his hands. _“Now_ I’m not.”

“Come on, hey,” Mulligan rebukes Tallmadge. “I know Alex. He wouldn’t give Laurens his number if he wasn’t interested. He’s a straight up guy, he doesn’t play games.”

“If you’re such good friends with him,” slurs Lafayette, lifting his glass accusingly. “Why is it we have never met him?”

 Mulligan shrugs. “Different crowd,” he replies, pouring himself more whiskey. “Never really thought about it. Guess I didn’t think you guys would get on.”

“Why would you think that?” asks Laurens, lifting his head off his arms to blink blearily at Mulligan.

 Mulligan shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d have much in common. You’re from very different backgrounds.”

“So are we and we’re friends.”

“Yeah, but you like N.W.A.”

“Is that literally the sole foundation of our friendship? Late eighties gangster rap?”

Mulligan gestures at his glass. “Also, expensive whiskey.”

“That is another point,” Lafayette says loudly, pulling a face. “Why on earth are we drinking this? We’re second year college students. We had microwave ramen for dinner. Why are we sat around talking about women as if it is the 1700s, or we are one of those Bad Boys?”

“Mad Men,” corrects Tallmadge helpfully.

“I like whiskey,” says Laurens with feeling. “It helps me forget my problems.” He throws back his glass, grimacing slightly at the burn and taking a second to appreciate the warm glow of his insides, not dissimilar to how he had felt when Hamilton looked down at him. “How long do you think it would take my dad to notice if I spent my Trust Fund on a plane ticket to New Zealand?”

Mulligan looks surprised. “You can access that?”

Laurens wobbles his head. “Not technically,” he clarifies. “I have the information I need, though. I made sure when I had that Big Gay Panic.”

His friends nod nostalgically, all well acquainted with the Big Gay Panic.

All of a sudden, Laurens’ phone vibrates. Quick as a shock Laurens darts for it, hands shaking so hard it falls off the coffee table. He scrabbles to lift it off the floor, heart flying into his mouth when he sees it’s a text from Hamilton.

_Alexander: Hey! Im good thanks, you?_

_What are u doing tonight_

“What are you doing tonight,” Laurens parrots, eyes fixed on the screen. “That’s what he’s asking me, that’s what he says.”

“Say you’re drinking Michter’s with your Bad Boys,” Mulligan suggests, words running together.

“I’m not saying that, he’ll think I’m a Republican,” Laurens snaps. “Oh my God, oh my God oh my _shit_ , Ben, what do I say?”

“Nothing,” Tallmadge lifts his shoulders heavily, face heavy with scepticism. “What kind of a reply is that? ‘Hey, I’m good thanks’? Not even any explanation for ghosting you two days? Nah man, forget it. Let him walk.”

“Lafayette,” Laurens resorts. “Buddy. Help me out.”

Lafayette scowls at him., crossing his arms haughtily over his chest. “Why didn’t you ask me first?”

“Okay, you know what?” Laurens taps frantically at his phone. “I’m just gonna reply. Just gonna…fuckin…do the send-y thing. There. Sent.”

“Whoooo,” drawls Mulligan, lifting the whiskey bottle in celebration. “Gay Pride.”

“What did you say?” asks Lafayette, craning his neck for a glimpse of Laurens’ phone.

_> What are u doing tonight_

_John: not much jchilling wbu_

“‘J-chilling,” Lafayette wrinkles his nose. “I hate Anglophones.”

“Quiet,” Laurens trips over his couch in his haste to get away, hunching over his phone on the kitchen counter and his back to the group. His pulse is already fluttering erratically by the time by the time Hamilton replies.

_Alexander: Hopefully you ;)_

“He said ‘hopefully you’,” Laurens relays loudly, voice sounding strangely high-pitched in his ears.

“Ugh,” Tallmadge grimaces, tilting his glass to allow Mulligan to pour. “Sleazy.”                                                                                        

“Tell him his mother said to mind his manners,” says Mulligan. “He’ll know who it means.”

Ignoring them, Laurens types back quickly.

_John: tonite is mayb not the best_

_Alexander: Aw man. U stepped out on me?_

_John: i mena its been fuor days. tidnr is a wide wrold_

_Alexander: touché_

_I gotta ask, are u being post-structuralist or drunk in your texting rn?_

“Fuck,” Laurens breaths out sharply, only just now noticing the mess he’s made of typing.

_John: uhhh both?_

_Alexander: Lmao_

_What a shame. i was looking forward to Foucault-ing u tonight_

_John: omg. that alone nerly soberd me up_

_Alexander: if could I believe that Id be on my way over :)_

_Oh well another time. Drink water xx_

_John: wait wait_

_Alexander: ?_

Laurens pauses, heart hammering through the blood and alcohol rushing hot through his veins. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, only that he doesn’t want Hamilton to go.

_John: can we just talk for a bit_

_Alexander: …_

_Um_

_What about_

Laurens runs a hand flusteredly through his hair, exhales sharply through his nose.

_John: idk anything. how was ur day?_

There’s a long, heart-stopping pause during which Laurens curses every god he knows in every known language. Finally, his phone screen flashes again.

_Alexander: Listen dude, I don’t rly feel comfortable drawing this out if its not gonna lead to a specific location if ygm. sorry to be blunt, I just dont rly see the point_

_John: no i hear u, thats cool_

_Alexander: Have a good night_

He’s losing him he’s losing him he’s losing him he’s

_John: hold up. can u do 2morrow?_

_i know somewehre near me. if u lemme take u i’ll pay_

_Alexander: …_

_Ask me again in the morning :)_

_John: how do i know u’ll reply :(_

_Alexander: Because ur paying :)))_

_sleep well xx_

Laurens throws his phone spectacularly across the counter. “I did a thing,” he declares.

Mulligan and Lafayette cheer triumphantly. Tallmadge grimaces, reaching for the bottle.

“Whatever,” he says once Laurens has re-seated himself smugly on the couch. “If he ghosts you again in the morning, don’t come crying to me.”

*

Hamilton does not ghost Laurens in the morning, and even if he had Laurens would not come crying to Ben because actually Ben is not a particularly emotionally supportive figure in Laurens’ life and also, Laurens wouldn’t cry.

Laurens probably wouldn’t cry.

But evening comes, and Hamilton has agreed to letting Laurens take him out. Laurens is already having regrets, not least due to the splitting whiskey-tinged headache he had woken up with, only barely assuaged by Hamilton’s “Yes”, and made worse by the prospect of having to drink more later. There’s no way he’ll be able to keep himself together without alcohol though, so he bites the bullet and resolves himself to just having to hang around the house like a bad smell for the next couple days.

The place he texts Hamilton to meet him is a lot fancier than where they had their first date. Normally he only ever comes in here for Mulligan or Lafayette’s birthday, on account of the ridiculous prices. Laurens waits nervously at the bar, tapping his credit card anxiously on the counter top, eyes flitting towards the door. The thought strikes his mind at what his father would say, if he knew how he was spending his hard-earned cash. He pushes it to the back of his mind as at that moment, Hamilton walks in.

He watches Hamilton’s eyes widen upon taking in the scenery, expression settling on a mixture of daunted and impressed as he slides in beside Laurens.

“Um, wow?” he says questioningly. “You realise I already said yes to sex, right? You didn’t have to try so hard.”

Laurens feels himself blush instantly. “It’s a lot, I know,” he mumbles embarrassedly. “But they do offers on cocktails sometimes.”

“I should think so,” Hamilton nods, flipping idly through a menu. “Wow, it’s laminated. Yeah, this is definitely outside my usual price range.”

“Think of it as payback for the coffee,” Laurens grins, ordering himself an old fashioned and Hamilton a mojito. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. It’s not my money.”

“Oh?” Hamilton raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Am I going for the wrong Laurens? To tell you the truth, I could really do with a sugar daddy this semester.”

If Laurens had taken a drink at this point, he would have spat it out.

“I still can’t believe I didn’t know you worked at the coffee bar,” he says in an attempt to steer the conversation decisively away from daddy’s, sugary or otherwise.

“I know,” Hamilton smirks, taking a sip of his mojito. “I must have tried to hit on you a thousand times.”

“If you did, it’s not your fault,” Laurens assures him. “I’m rarely at my best at that time in the morning. Probably didn’t process what was going on.”

“Uhuh. Considering I’ve seen you at your best, can confirm,” Hamilton quips mischievously. “And you know Lafayette?”

“Ya. We have a French literature module together in European studies.”

Hamilton nods. “You speak French?”

“Ya. Swiss boarding school. You?” Hamilton nods. “How come?”

Hamilton smiles sardonically. “Not Swiss boarding school,” he answers dryly.

Laurens curses inwardly, remembering what Mulligan said about their different backgrounds and the two of them potentially not getting on and deciding to change the subject.

They talk for a while fairly innocuously – school, work, their respective days. Unlike the last date, there’s a distinctive air of hurrying, like everything’s sort of steam-rolling towards an inevitable conclusion. It’s… _tantalising_ …and not exactly helped by the more than suggestive way Hamilton keeps scooping up ice cubes and whirling them around with his tongue, sucking on them between full lips until they turn to liquid in his mouth.

“So uh,” Laurens clears his throat, feeling a little hot under the collar as Hamilton dips around with his tongue. “Did Herc mention me to you at all?”

Hamilton gives him an amused look, sucking a mint leaf off the rim of his glass. “Yeah, he might have said something,” he replies vaguely. “Mostly stuff I already figured out.”

“Like what?” asks Laurens, wary and curious.

“That you’re smart,” Hamilton ticks off his fingers. “And funny and very family-orientated. Also that you’re an introvert but fun, a Gryffindor, and that you smoke like a chimney.”

“I…hey!” Laurens blusters, torn between feeling indignant and the knowledge that Mulligan could really have said much worse. “That’s not fair! I smoke as much as he does.”

“He said you do it with authority,” Hamilton smirks. “I think his exact words were ‘trustafarian’.”

Laurens swears very quietly through his teeth.

“Look,” says Laurens. “Maybe, maybe forget about…everything Mulligan has ever said ever.”

Hamilton laughs. It’s a full movement, featuring his whole body, and does very stupid things to Laurens’ insides. “Come on,” he prompts him. “I’m sure he’s said just as bad about me.”

Laurens shrugs. “Just how you met,” he says. “And that you don’t play games, or have the time or patience for relationships.” He waits tentatively for Hamilton to incline his head before proceeding. “I live with a guy, Ben Tallmadge? He’s not your biggest fan.”

Hamilton’s eyebrows work confusedly. “Ben Tallmadge?” he repeats, perplexed. “Never heard of him. What does he do?”

Laurens waves dismissively. “Spy on people, mostly,” he replies. “He er…he says he knows some people whose…er…hearts you’ve broken.”

This time, Hamilton’s eyebrows shoot right up towards his hairline. “Who?” he demands.

Laurens shrugs again, taking a sip of his drink in an attempt to cool his face. “He likes to give information and not names.”

Hamilton looks vaguely unhappy for a second, but then leans back in his chair, a cool expression shuttering on as if it had never been in the least bit troubled. “Well,” he says finally. “I don’t know what you’ve heard. But the way I see it, it’s mostly been the other way around.”

Laurens, already regretting this conversation, lowers his gaze to the countertop. “I haven’t heard anything,” he confesses truthfully. “I just think you’re nice.”

Hamilton’s grin splits delightedly, sharp as the lime in his glass. “‘Nice’?” he repeats, nearly bursting with comedy.

Laurens nods. “Why?” he asks, tense. “Is that a dumb word?”

Hamilton laughs again, shaking his dark head. “No,” he replies. “It’s just not really a word people generally use to describe me.”

“Oh,” says Laurens, relaxing. “Well. Maybe they just don’t know you.”

Hamilton’s mouth quirks again, and Laurens shivers at the knowledge of the promise laying just behind it. “And you think you do, John Laurens?” he purrs challengingly. “On only the second date?”

Laurens’ shoulders rise and fall. “I’d like to,” he says without inhibition, adding boldly, “I already said that I like you.”

“Aren’t you afraid ‘I’ll break your heart’?” Hamilton’s eyelashes flutter exaggeratedly, his voice a parody accent of a high-society lady’s, like from some classic film.  

Cottoning onto the game Laurens lowers his own, trying for a heavy New York drawl. “Little late for that, sweetheart,” he imitates. “I’m already broken.”

Hamilton smirks, tapping Laurens’ wrist in reprimand. “You should have said you didn’t have one.”

Laurens pulls a face. “Sorry,” he says. “Been a while since I watched noir.”

“I could maybe be in the mood for some after this,” Hamilton says casually.

“You don’t wanna just smoke a joint and make out?”

“I mean like, the making out was sort of implied. But if you have weed, then sure.”

“You heard Mulligan,” says Laurens dryly. “Apparently I always have weed.”

Hamilton laughs again and God seriously, what the hell is Tallmadge talking about because he knows they have different tastes in a lot of stuff but Laurens just doesn’t understand how in what world anyone could think that this boy isn’t pretty.

“Sounds good,” says Hamilton, sliding his hand under the table and up Laurens’ knee. Smiles at him.

*

Some time later, they step out into the street. The streetlamps dance through the dark, spilling light erratically onto the sidewalk which is just as well; Laurens knows the way back, but what with the pleasant haze of alcohol and the insistent heat of another body beside him, he’s a little less trusting of his instincts than usual. Still it’s a cold night and he shivers slightly, drawing his coat tighter around himself. Noticing the movement Hamilton glances up, eyelids heavy with a warm, gentle contentment.  

“Here,” he steps forward with a giggle, sliding his hands into Laurens’ back pockets. “I’ll warm you up.”

“You’re so corny,” Laurens tells him, words sticking a little as a rush of heat rises in his chest with Hamilton bringing their bodies closer together.

“You pronounced it wrong,” Hamilton whispers, rubbing shamelessly against him.

Laurens groans, as much as the line as anything else. Hamilton stretches up onto his tiptoes, angling his jaw to catch Laurens’ mouth. Laurens responds immediately, moving his hand to skim Hamilton’s cheek with his thumb. The sugar from the mojito is still on his lips, his mouth is sweet with it. As Laurens licks in deeper he tastes the tang of lime, sharp and searing against the heady rum. He runs his tongue along Hamilton’s bottom lip, sucks it hard between his own. Some kind of sadistic recreation with what he was doing earlier with the ice-cubes. Hamilton gasps, shoves his hands more insistently in Laurens’ pockets until he’s digging into his ass with his nails. A low rumble comes from Laurens’ throat – he presses Hamilton back, back until he has him up against a street lamp, the long cold bar of metal digging into his spine. Hamilton breathes out a laugh, hooks his foot around Laurens’ leg and draws him in.

They kiss until they’re both panting – breathy, and open-mouthed, hearts galloping loudly in their chests. Hamilton’s whining; needy, desperate noises that would have embarrassed Laurens were either in a fit state to care. By the time they break apart his cheeks are flushed, his mouth cherry red. His eyes, when he opens them, are wide; the pupils dilated from the heady rush of heat and alcohol and adrenaline and desire. His hands slip from the back of Laurens’ pants round to the front, easing under the waistline. He shoves down, searching, curls his fingers around the hardness there and puts his mouth to Laurens’ neck.

“Take me home,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies if this chapter is a rambling mess, i wrote most of it in a similar state to the characters
> 
> nb. if u read and liked this pls comment bcos i have a lot of stuff on the go atm and this is first in line to be dropped lol


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw weed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the slow update and that not much happens in this chapter! i wanted to get it out soon before I start getting really into my xmas essays as not sure when i'll next have the chance to update

The door behind Laurens clicks shut, alerting the others to their arrival.

“Laurens!” Lafayette sings from the couch.

“Are you serious,” Laurens says dully as Mulligan gives him a cheery wave.

“How was your time?” he asks, suddenly noticing Hamilton close behind him. “Hey, Alex.”

Hamilton double-takes, eyes widening as he takes in both of them. “Oh,” he says, trying to keep the surprise out his voice. “You guys live here?”

 _“No_ they _don’t,”_ states Laurens emphatically.

“Laurens,” says Lafayette. “While you are on your feet, will you please make us more popcorn.”

Laurens strides into the living room, snatching the outstretched bowl out of Lafayette’s hand. “Why are you always _here?”_ he asks him and Mulligan challengingly. “You both have girlfriends.”

“Chessboard,” Lafayette gestures at the game laying between them. “Also, we wanted to meet Alexander!”

“You’ve already _met_ him.”

“That’s not the same,” Lafayette shakes his head conclusively. “I have met pun guy. No one is the same when they are at work.”

“I’m pretty similar,” Hamilton admits.

Lafayette gets to his feet. He walks up to Hamilton slowly, eyes narrowed and intense. Hamilton holds the gaze, entirely unflinching, breaking it only when Lafayette holds out his hand.

“It is nice to meet you properly Alexander,” he states, voice grave. “Outside of a coffee-based setting.”

Hamilton takes his hand firmly, looking equally serious. “You too.”

“See, now we have met!” Lafayette breaks off sunnily, releasing Hamilton’s hand. “That is all we really wanted.”

“I didn’t want to meet him,” says Tallmadge.

Laurens points tiredly. “That’s Ben,” he tells Hamilton. “He lives here.”

Hamilton waves. “Hi!”

Tallmadge raises an eyebrow.

“Do you play chess?” Lafayette demands.

Hamilton blinks, momentarily taken aback by his urgency. “Uh yeah,” he nods. “I mean, I haven’t in a while.”

Lafayette gestures grandly at the board, clearing it away and resetting it. Laurens goes to put the popcorn in the microwave. Behind him he can hear Lafayette and Mulligan as Hamilton sits down to play black, engaging him immediately in conversation. 

“Where are you from, Alexander?” Lafayette asks him, moving his pawn.

“St Croix,” Hamilton replies. “Virgin Islands, it’s near St Kitts. And Nevis, where I was born.”

“Have you been away long?”

“Since I came here for school.”

“Do you miss it?”

Hamilton makes a funny movement, in between shaking his head, a nod, and a shrug. Even from the kitchen, Laurens can sense his discomfort. Clearly Lafayette, sensitive as he is, picks up on it too because he obligingly says: “I’m from France. Mulligan is from Brooklyn.”

Hamilton bursts out a laugh. “I know,” he says. “I…have actually met you both before.”

“He called you his best friend,” Lafayette looks up from the board to glare at Mulligan reproachfully, and not a little jealously. “Yet he has never had you round.”

Mulligan spreads his palms defensively. “Different group,” he protests. “Ben never has his friends over.”

“John mentioned we might know some of the same people,” Hamilton addresses Tallmadge.

Tallmadge shrugs. “Yeah,” he replies. “Maybe. It’s not impossible.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

“I don’t really have a group,” Hamilton continues once the silence has become awkward. “My people are dotted all over. The closest I have to a core are three girls who are all sisters, and their parents. Which…I’m only just realising now how lame that is.”

“At least you have friends who are girls,” Mulligan points out. “Laurens won’t let us. He thinks they’re smelly.”

“Hey!” Laurens blusters from the kitchen. “Not true!”

“Girls smell _great,”_ says Hamilton, dreamily moving his knight. “You ever noticed that, how good girls smell? I mean, I like the way boys smell too, but it’s different. Their cologne and deodorant is so harsh, like it’s designed to knock out a bear and keep you warm through the winter or whatever the fuck. You like it _despite_ yourself, because of the things it implies. But girl scents are just objectively nice. I started buying my shampoos and shower gels from the ladies’ sections. If anyone asks, I just say it’s in protest against gendered packaging.”

Mulligan and Lafayette laugh. Laurens, flustered and distracted by the last thirty seconds’ confession, nearly drops the popcorn as he’s getting it out the microwave.

“Adrienne smells nice,” Lafayette says whimsically, drawing his rook over to castle. “Like vanilla and cherries.”

“That your girlfriend?”

“That, or last week’s cheesecake,” says Mulligan.

Lafayette whacks him on the leg. “Come to think of it, she does smell always a little like dessert,” he concedes thoughtfully. “Huh.”

“Beth smells like hair products.”

“This is a super creepy conversation,” says Tallmadge, and also Laurens internally.

“Just because your boyfriend smells like feet,” Lafayette retaliates.

“How did you guys meet each other?” Hamilton asks Lafayette. “I already know all about Mulligan.”

“We were children together,” Lafayette replies nostalgically. “She was my first love. I first asked her out on the swings when I was nine years old. She said no – it broke my heart. But five years later she changed her mind, and we have been together ever since.”

Hamilton lets out a low whistle. “Wow,” he says in wonder. “That’s a fairy-tale, alright.”

Lafayette nods happily. “She is my soulmate,” he tells Hamilton seriously. “I cannot imagine being with anyone else for the rest of my life. There is nothing like the bond of having only ever been with one person.” He pauses, looking briefly shaken from Laurens to Hamilton before amending quickly, “Of course…Tinder is also very good for some.”

“I’m his best man,” Mulligan tells Hamilton while Laurens shoves popcorn stressedly into his mouth. “Laurens is head usher.”

“Can I officiate?” Hamilton asks.

Lafayette looks unsure. “Are you ordained as a priest?” he asks. “I don’t think you can do that online.”

Hamilton pulls a face. “Not sure I meet the necessary requirements,” he replies regretfully. “You ever think about getting married at sea? I always wanted to become a Captain so I could marry people.”

“That’s only in Japan,” Laurens tells him. “You still have to be a licenced minister or Judge.”

“Really?” says Hamilton, surprised. “Huh. That’s a bummer. There go my life plans.”

“It would not make a difference,” Lafayette says reassuringly. “Adrienne is very strict about it being a Catholic ceremony. Which is unfortunate, as I would have liked you to officiate very much.”

“Thanks, man. Means a lot.”

“Okay,” Laurens claps his hands, decidedly done with this particular interlude and feeling like it could have the potential to go on for some time. “Not that this isn’t fun, but uh, me and Alex kind of had plans for the evening.”

Lafayette and Mulligan frown at him reproachfully asHamilton gets to his feet with a wave. “Sorry, but he’s right,” he says apologetically. “G’night, guys. It was great to meet you properly. And Ben, of course.”

“But we haven’t finished our game,” protests Lafayette.

“We can always finish it in the morning,” Hamilton winks.

Tallmadge makes a disapproving, choking sound. Laurens, flushing brightly, turns away so the others can’t see his face, and leads Hamilton to his room.

Once inside he leans against the door, falling back until it clicks firmly shut. Hamilton drops immediately onto the bed, smiling sweetly up at Laurens with wide, expectant eyes. Cheeks still flushed, Laurens tries to meet it sheepishly.

“Sorry about that,” he apologises. “I didn’t know they’d be here.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “Not a problem,” he says cheerfully. “It was nice. You have nice friends.”

Laurens shrugs, unwilling to concede the point even with them out of hearing distance. “They’re ok,” he replies grudgingly. “Er…sorry about Tallmadge, too. He never quite grew out of his emo phase.”

Hamilton laughs. “Did any of us?” he jokes. “Nah, it’s fine. Maybe I’ll win him over – I’m good at Stockholm-syndroming people into being friends with me.”

“You reckon you’ll be around enough for that?” Laurens asks craftily.

Hamilton gives him a low lidded look from beneath his eyelashes. “Well, that depends,” he replies, voice equally sly. “What have you got to tempt me?”

“Er…” Laurens rummages around in his sock drawer until he finds what he’s looking for, lifting it up as if in offering. “Like…an eighth, I think?”

Hamilton blinks, momentarily taken aback. “I mean…I was going for the innuendo,” he confesses. “But uh…yeah. That’ll work too.”

Laurens laughs, joining Hamilton on the bed with a light bounce. Hamilton watches as he fumbles with papers and grinder, trying to do this smoothly while also painfully aware of the pounding in his chest at the proximity of having Hamilton close to him. His chin is tilted towards him, mouth inches away and Laurens can feel his breath, very gently on his ear and God, _why_ did he have to mention that thing about shampoo because _of course_ now Laurens can’t stop noticing it – something soft and vaguely citrusy; if he turned his head now he’d get a whole face-full…

The whole rush and intensity of it makes him slower than normal, and the time stretches taut between them. But when Laurens taps the joint Hamilton’s smile uncurls like honey.

“Expert,” he teases. “Looks like Mulligan was right after all.”

Laurens raises an eyebrow, holding it out to Hamilton. “Do you want this, or not?”

“Yes please,” Hamilton takes it from him, accepting Laurens’ lighter with thanks. Laurens goes to light incense and open a window, hooking the most inoffensive music he can think of up to the speaker.

It takes approximately two tokes before Hamilton starts taking utter shit.

“You know what was also fucking unfair? The witch craze,” Hamilton babbles, laying against Laurens’ pillows with his neck crumpled into his shoulders. “Like, don’t get me wrong, I know it’s easy as all hell to say that from a post-Enlightenment perspective and all, and imposing modern ideas about rationalism on history is just ignoring all kinds of geopolitical subtext. And like, actually if you take a step back and consider all the steps leading up to it, you can totally see the logical connections in judgement. I mean, we’re talking straight after the Reformation, right? Protestant doctrine undoes _thousands of years_ of psychological dependency on a firmly entrenched morality system by suddenly saying ‘hey – good deeds aren’t enough to get you into Heaven anymore. Actually, your lot has already been decided, and you’re going to Heaven or Hell totally regardless of anything you do in this life.’ Which has a lot of people thinking, like, what’s the point, right? If I’m already damned anyway then why am I even bothering? Which obviously leads to depression and psychosis on a societal scale with people seeing demons and hellfire literally anytime they close their eyes…and the Puritan authorities jumped on this corporal shit of spirits and demons and whatnot, even though it isn’t actually _technically_ compatible with their philosophy, but anyway – it was politically useful to perform exorcisms every weekend just to give the Reformation credibility…like I _get_ all of that, but what really pisses me off is that magic and occultism had been a respected part of Renaissance culture when learned dudes were doing it. It was only when women started getting called out as witches that all this having-carnal-relationships-with-the-devil stuff cropped up. And yeah, ok, there were male witches executed too. But you know how many were ladies? Four out of five! _Four out of five prosecuted,_ John. That’s like…all of us in this apartment!”

“There are exactly five of us in this apartment,” Laurens tells him, taking a drag and grinning amusedly.

“Ok, well,” Hamilton huffs. “So my maths isn’t great.”

“Aren’t you’re literally doing Economics?”

“Yeah,” Hamilton groans, dropping his head from the pillows and onto Laurens’ shoulder. “But my brain feels fizzy.”

Laurens laughs, patting Hamilton’s citrusy hair. Hamilton lifts his head heavily off Laurens’ shoulder to grin at him blearily, eyelids drooping. Laurens smiles down at him, the strings of his heart tugging painfully. “You’re a little bit of a lightweight, aren’t you?”

“Mmhm,” says Hamilton, still grinning. “I’m a little little.”

“You are,” Laurens affirms, stroking his hair.

“You’re big.”

“I’m bigger than you,” Laurens agrees.

“What about down there?” Hamilton lowers his face to nudge against Laurens’ crotch. “Hellooooo!”

“Oh my God,” Laurens laughs, shoving Hamilton away as he cackles. “What even are you?”

Hamilton shrugs, giggling as he slides an arm across Laurens’ chest and over his shoulder, pressing his body flush against him. “You’re fizzy,” he tells him with authority.

“What does that mean?” Laurens whispers, aware of the fogginess of his own head as he moves his own hand to rub Hamilton’s back.

Hamilton shrugs again. “You’re fizzy. You make me fizzy.”

Laurens grins. “Is that a good thing?”

Hamilton nods, drooping eyelids going even heavier.  

All the air rushes immediately out of Laurens’ chest as Hamilton leans in to kiss him. The arm around his shoulders has tightened, pulling him further against him; Laurens surrenders to it, moving to hold Hamilton more securely until he has both hands on his back. Hamilton deepens the kiss instantly, pushing against Laurens and sliding in his tongue. The weed makes it slow, lazy, torturously so. It’s so unbelievably sexy Laurens is already straining in his jeans, the denim a distracting discomfort against the otherwise languorous warmth. He grips Hamilton’s back harder, nails digging in and Hamilton lets out a low groan, scrambling for better purchase as he climbs onto Laurens’ lap.

His ass is high, pert and Laurens’ cock twitches as it grinds against it, hands going straight to Hamilton’s hips. They’re skinny where he isn’t elsewhere, and his palms fit perfectly in the groove of his hipbone.

“Pretty thing,” he hears himself say.

The effect is unexpected. Hamilton swallows, a bright scarlet blush coming into his cheeks. Before Laurens can delight in causing it he’s kissing him again, hands rubbing over his chest with new urgency. Laurens groans with frustration, cock painfully hard now. He slides his palms down to grip the firm muscle of Hamilton’s ass, digging in his nails. Hamilton makes a noise that shouldn’t be legal, moving to fumble at the front of Laurens’ jeans and gripping him hard through the denim with one hand. Laurens gasps, moan caught off in his throat as he bites his lip.

Hamilton doesn’t undo the zip properly but slides his hand in part-way, gripping the top of his cock as he had on the street outside. He wriggles his wrist further until he can take more of him, too lazy to properly take off Laurens’ pants. Laurens keens, falling back against the pillows as Hamilton jerks him slowly, yielding pleasure out of him by torturous degrees. The angle is awkward, the drag rough but _good,_ so good, and better when Hamilton manages to reach his slit and drag precum over the shaft.

Then Hamilton is kissing him again, chasing his tongue, teeth scraping against his bottom lip. Despite the warm sluggishness in his head every sensation is bright and sharp, everything brought to a sudden, vivid intensity. Laurens is hyperaware of each emotion rushing through his system, including a jolt of panic at his climax stirring in his abdomen.

“Alexander,” Laurens says warningly, and God, _God,_ he’s about to come – about to come in his jeans in front of basically a stranger-

“It’s fine,” Hamilton whispers, twisting his hand. “Go on, it’s fine.”

It’s _not_ fine, says a sober voice at the back of his head. It’s really, really embarrassing. But the weed has made him absent and languid and for once in his life Laurens doesn’t think, just squeezes his eyes shut and lets Hamilton work him.

He throws his head back against the pillows, lifts his hips up as wetness floods the denim. Hamilton withdraws his hand with an effort from the tight restriction, casting about for a towel. Picking one off the floor he wipes himself off efficiently, then moves to claw gently at the top of Laurens’ thigh.

“Alright?” he asks, curling against him.

Laurens nods shakily, turning over to kiss him deeply. Hamilton sighs into the kiss, draping his arm over Laurens’ body. His own cock nudges Laurens’ hip, rock hard and insistent. Laurens forces himself into action enough to take him in hand, wriggling his pants down and sliding his fist into Hamilton's boxers. He holds him tight against his chest while he strokes him, slow and lazy until finally, he comes with a shudder.

For a while they just lay there, wrung out and heads spinning too much to move. Then Hamilton starts to squirm restlessly and Laurens becomes increasingly uncomfortable in his stiff jeans, embarrassment creeping in as the reality of the situation settles over him. He pushes himself off the mattress, tossing a pair of basketball shorts at Hamilton before wriggling out of his pants and underwear, grimacing at the mess.

“Fuck,” he says bitterly, heat rushing into his cheeks. “I can’t believe I did that. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” Hamilton whines at him from the bed, holding his arms out. “Come on. Get over here.”

“Wait a second,” Laurens goes to turn the light out. “Hey, do you wanna see something cool?”

He flicks the switch. An eerie blue darkness falls over the room, broken by bright swathes of gently pulsing green light. A wonderous gasp rushes out from Hamilton’s lips as he gazes delightedly at the ceiling.

“Look at all the stars!” he gushes, staring up at Lafayette's glow-in-the-dark novelty present as though it held all of the enchanting awe of the Milky Way.

Laurens chuckles, returning to the bed. Hamilton’s arms slink around him, pulling him forcefully down beside him. He presses himself securely against Laurens’ side, drooping one leg over his.

“If you were a constellation, which one would you be?” he asks into his neck. 

Laurens blinks, thrown by the question. “Uh…I don’t know,” he racks his brains, trying to remember the interesting ones. “Orion, maybe?”

“Yeah?” Hamilton grins at him in sceptical amusement. “Big old hench huntsman?”

Laurens shrugs. “I don’t know. I figured it would be just my luck to end up somewhere I shouldn’t be, and get deservedly torn apart by an angry lesbian.”

Hamilton laughs so hard and for so long tears come out his eyes.

“What about you?” Laurens holds him close, turns his face into his hair.

Hamilton hums thoughtfully against Laurens’ chest. "Probably Aquarius,” he replies softly. “Ganymede. I like the idea of representing a twink so rocking the King of the Gods was ready to risk it all for some mortal dick.”

Laurens snorts. Hamilton lifts his head up from his chest, grins at him.

“I’m glad I met you,” he says softly. “All the stuff aside, I mean. I’m really glad Tinder matched us.”

Something sticks in Laurens’ throat, robbing all the clever, eloquent words he wants to say. Eventually, all he can force out is: “I’m glad Tinder matched us too.”

Hamilton smiles, drops his head back against Laurens chest. Laurens swallows the lump in his throat. Strokes his hair until they fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i er...increased the rating
> 
> a little insecure about this one pls be kind and let me know what u think x


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just guys hanging out
> 
> aka. this chapter is mostly dialogue and shitty references. sorry :(

When Laurens first opens his eyes the next morning, Hamilton is already up and getting dressed.

“Oh! Hello,” Hamilton greets him, looking rather sheepish.

Laurens looks him up and down. He’s holding his shoes awkwardly in one hand, as if planning to put them on halfway out the door. “Were you trying to sneak out?”

 _“No,”_ Hamilton says forcefully, a little too indignant to be convincing.

Laurens slides off the bed, stretching his limbs. His eyes are drawn magnetically to his rumpled jeans, laying shamefully in the corner. Hamilton follows the gaze. The hollows of his cheeks colour faintly, he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Jeez, I was so embarrassing last night,” he forces out a laugh. “Sorry about that. Weed makes me clingy. I can get kinda cringey and intense when I’m stoned.”

“No…that’s ok,” Laurens shakes his head. “I didn’t think you were…um…cringey.”

Hamilton smiles ruefully. “Thanks.” He pulls on his socks and shoes. “I gotta take off.”

Laurens nods dully, disappointment plummeting in his stomach. “Sure.”

Hamilton doesn’t leave immediately though but hesitates, face twisting as if at some feeble internal conflict. There’s a look of guilt in his eye, and the way he nibbles uncertainly at his mouth. “Thanks for everything,” he says at last. “It was really fun.”

Laurens smiles hollowly. “No worries.”

“Can I give you some money, or something?”

“Oh, no,” Laurens pulls a face, feeling quite affronted at the idea. “Don’t worry about it. Mi casa es su casa.”

Hamilton grins, showing white teeth. “Gracias por su hospitalidad,” he returns. “Espero verte pronto.”

“Cuando quieras.”

“¿De verdad? ¡Muy desesperado debes estar!”

“I mean…clearly,” Laurens gestures at his jeans. Hamilton lets out a hoot of laughter.

“Nice,” he says appreciatively. “Classy. I’ll catch you later, Laurens.”

“Later, Hamilton,” Laurens returns.

Hamilton’s mouth twitches amusedly at the use of his surname. He slaps the side of the doorpost twice – jovial, comradely – and bounces out the room.

The second Laurens hears the door close, he reaches for his phone.

_John: alexander speaks spanish :)))_

_Lafayette: i thought hé spoke french (better.)_

_John: he speaks both :)))_

_Lafayette: :O wifey that man_

_where is he now?_

_John: he just left_

_Lafayette: wtf!!!_

_we didn’t even get to finish oùr game!!!_

Laurens chuckles, chucking his phone to the side before burying his face back into his pillow, trying not to think too hard about the faint smell of lemons still clinging to the cotton.

*

A couple days pass uneventfully. Laurens has to fight the itch to message Hamilton, knowing the ball is decidedly in his court and wary that he’s already come off too keen. It’s not his fault – Ben was right. He _hasn’t_ really done this before.

He and Martha went out at sixteen, and even then it was only because they got along and their friends basically pushed them to it. It would almost have been rude _not_ to ask her out. But there wasn’t all that much of a step up from walking around holding hands in kindergarten, and saying you were “married”. He’d had crushes in high school. Painful ones, _intense_ ones. Along with the kinds of fraught friendships where staying up late into the night at a sleepover suddenly takes on a new, entirely different meaning, tense and electric with baited potential and the breathless fear of what would happen if it was acted on. But they always ended badly, or faded away with time. Or he got older. Grew out of them.

This, though. This is actually a _thing –_ maybe not in the way Laurens would like it to be, but still. It’s real. He and Hamilton are sleeping together, have slept together _twice_ now, and so much of this is new and terrifying because this is the first time anything like this has happened to him. He’s not stupid. _He knows_ that’s why he’s so far gone. But the fact remains he hasn’t felt like this through even his most agonising adolescent crushes. No one’s ever made him feel like this before. Certainly not this fast.

 _Buuuuuuuut_ it’s different for Hamilton, who probably lost his virginity at fifteen in a threesome or something, and who does this on the reg. Laurens is the latest in a very long line. He knows this. He’s fine with it. He just needs to reign himself in, check his enthusiasm before it scares Hamilton away. So he waits, and he pines a little bit, and he absolutely does not text him.

Midweek comes. Laurens has a shitty day. At lunchtime his dad calls, and a mark back on an essay had been a lot lower than he’d hoped. The conversation is scattered and meaningless as Laurens prevaricates desperately around his grades, trying not to let anything slip that might make him more mad. It’s a tedious, exhausting exercise, to the extent that he doesn’t even have the energy to go to the gym as planned, opting instead to head back to the house early.

By the time he gets home he’s irritable and completely wiped out. Tallmadge isn’t in but the lights are on, meaning either Lafayette or Mulligan has made use of their key.

“Bastard!” he hears Lafayette swear, confirming his suspicions.

Rolling his eyes he hangs up his parka, makes his way into the living room…

…where he is entirely unprepared for the sight of Hamilton, smirking triumphantly over the chessboard at a furious Lafayette.

Both their heads whip up at Laurens’ entrance. For a moment, Laurens just stares. “Er…Hello?”

“Hi!” Hamilton chirps embarrassedly, then waves.

“What are you _doing_ here?”

“You said you were going to the gym,” says Lafayette accusingly, as if _he’s_ the one in the wrong here.

“I changed my mind,” Laurens frowns.

Both Hamilton and Lafayette’s faces are swimming with guilty surprise. Laurens looks from one to the other, to the chessboard laying on the coffee table between them.

“We had to finish our game,” Lafayette explains apologetically. “We didn’t know you’d be back.”

“Of course you did,” Laurens responds, too tired to even bother putting up a fight. “And why would you? It’s not like it’s _my house_ or anything.”

“I’m sorry,” says Hamilton hastily, moving to get to his feet. “I’ll leave.”

“No, it’s fine,” Laurens huffs, annoyed at himself now. “You can stay here, it’s nothing to do with me. I’m just going to my room.”

He retreats quickly, before Lafayette can try to apologise again. Once within the safe walls of his room he collapses onto the bed, grabbing his headphones and yanking them on aggressively to blot out the sound of their conversation. He pulls his laptop towards him, deciding to try and make a start on his reading before the next class.

Unfortunately, the niggling awareness of Hamilton in the other room, moving like something live under his skin means he has a hard time concentrating. He’s almost grateful when about ten minutes later he’s interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Yeah?”

It’s opened by Hamilton, still looking sheepish. “Hey,” he says. “Listen…I feel really bad. I didn’t mean to kick you out of your own living room and all.”

“It’s cool,” Laurens tells him, but Hamilton shakes his head.

“It was shitty, coming over behind your back. Lafayette invited me, but I thought you’d find it weird…”

“It’s not weird,” Laurens lies. “You’re already friends with Mulligan, after all. You can come round if you want, it doesn’t have to be for me.”

Hamilton looks sceptical. “Are you sure?”

Laurens nods. Hamilton still looks unsure. “Ok,” he says dubiously. “But there has to be ground rules. If I’m invited by one of the others, then we can’t do any stuff. We’re just guys, being pals. Hanging out.”

This seems fair. “Ok.”

Hamilton nods, looking happier. “Now that we’ve got that sorted,” he jerks his head in the direction of the living room, asking coyly, “Do you, as a guy, wanna be a pal and hang out?”

Laurens huffs a laugh, clearing his stuff up off the bed. “Sure,” he concedes. “I gotta do some work. But I’ll sit in the same room.”

“Good enough,” Hamilton accepts, holding open the door for him.

Lafayette is still seated over the board, doing his best attempt at puppy-dog eyes at Laurens as he reappears. They’re really not all that difficult to resist. If Lafayette was a dog he would be a Saluki, and they’ve always seemed like smug bastards to him.

“How was your day?” Lafayette flutters his eyelashes like a coquet and Laurens is no longer sure what effect he’s going for.

“Shit,” Laurens replies curtly, returning to his laptop. “Let’s not dwell. How was yours.”

“It was fine,” Lafayette replies crossly. “Then Alexander took my rook.”

Hamilton grins widely at Laurens. “It’s true. I did.”

“He distracted me with a pin,” Lafayette tantrums. “Then he drew me into a fork!”

“That’s wizard’s chess,” Hamilton winks at Laurens, who blushes. “Ruthless cunning, my friend. It’s my forté. Eyes on the prize.”

“Yet you don’t think you’re a Slytherin?”

Hamilton shrugs, moving his knight. “It depends who you talk to,” he replies. “Mulligan thinks I’m a Ravenclaw. My girlfriends say Gryffindor. I’d like Slytherin, though.”

“It’s what you like that counts,” Laurens reminds him.

“Anything but Slytherin!” Lafayette chimes patriotically. “That is what I say.”

“You wouldn’t even be at Hogwarts,” Laurens retorts. “You’re so Beauxbatons it hurts.”

Lafayette sticks his tongue out at him.

“Herc’s a Hufflepuff,” Hamilton continues thoughtfully. “He just aggressively cares about people. Like a big, grouchy mother hen.”

“He doesn’t make friends,” Laurens nods sagely. “He adopts children.”

“Hey!” Lafayette frowns indignantly. “I take offence. I have assumed at least half the responsibilities in co-parenting you.”

Hamilton laughs as Laurens raises an eyebrow. “You _really_ want to take credit for that?”

Lafayette gestures at Laurens. “In first year, I caught him trying to stuff a whole pillow into the washing machine,” he tells Hamilton.

Hamilton goggles at Laurens who feels his face heat up. “I spilt tabasco sauce,” he protests defensively. “It seeped through the case.”

“It was the first time he had ever done his own laundry,” Lafayette clarifies, the little _shit_.

Hamilton’s eyebrows shoot up incredulously. _“Wow.”_

Laurens flings his finger in desperate deflection at Lafayette. “He once spent four hundred dollars on hipster ice cream.”

“It was butter pecan caramel and green tea,” Lafayette retorts, taking Hamilton’s pawn primly. “I have no regrets. Also, dairy free.”

Hamilton whistles. “You guys sure do have it to throw around,” he says dryly. “Although to be honest, I’m more disturbed by whatever you were eating in bed that required tabasco sauce.”

“You don’t know my life,” says Laurens.

“He likes to buy three dollar six packs of burgers,” Lafayette informs Hamilton. “And eat them with pasta while watching British costume dramas.”

Hamilton lets out a squawk of delight while Lafayette leaps to the side to avoid Laurens launching at him, hissing: _“You asshole!”_

“Let me guess,” Hamilton says breathy with laughter and clutching his abdomen. “College was your first time cooking for yourself too?”

“No,” Laurens says, glaring at Lafayette who makes an acquiescing gesture.

“In fairness, Laurens is a very good cook,” Lafayette expounds. “We make a lot of food together. He just does the burger thing for the aesthetic.”

“I’m actually going to murder you in your sleep.”

“That’s cute that you make food together,” Hamilton says idly before Lafayette can retort. “Anything fancy?”

Laurens shrugs. “Nothing too crazy,” he says modestly. “We have an Instagram, but it’s mostly just for when we find cool places to eat out.”

Hamilton still looks interested so Laurens fishes out his phone to show him. As Laurens scrolls through Hamilton makes little gasps and admiring noises, tilting his head closer towards Laurens. Laurens feels his breath against his ear, senses the warmth radiating from him through the thin material of his shirt. Hamilton puts his hands on Laurens’ to steady the phone, their skin brushing as the knuckles slide together. Hamilton bends to look closer, his mouth inches away. Laurens’ pulse quickens, breathing catching in his chest. He wonders if Hamilton hears it.

“These look _amazing,”_ Hamilton breathes, gawping for a long time at a sweet potato rosti. “Did you take the pictures?”

“Uh, ya,” Laurens asserts, a little embarassedly.

“They’re so good. Did you ever think about photography?” His finger brushes over the back of Laurens’ hand, causing a shiver to run down Laurens’ spine. Laurens looks at him beneath his eyelashes, wondering if he did it on purpose.

“Not a big deal,” he says quietly. “The camera’s good on my phone.”

“You will have to come round for dinner some time,” chimes Lafayette, breaking the spell.

Hamilton darts his hand away, as if at an electric shock. “Uh…maybe,” he says, handing Laurens back his phone. “Not sure if that’s ok with John.”

Laurens shrugs. “Ya dije que sí.” he replies. "Cuando quieras, ¿te acuerdas?

Hamilton pulls a face. “Eres muy cortés. ¿Pero estás seguro?”

“Hey,” Lafayette speaks up crossly. “Come on. Don’t do that.”

“Sí, estoy seguro,” Laurens nods, ignoring Lafayette. “Además, Lafayette caes bien.”

“HEY,” Lafayette complains, louder. “WHAT ARE YOU SAYING. STOP THAT.”

“Bueno. Me cae bien Lafayette,” Hamilton grins. “Aunque que su defensa es muy mala.”

“I’m not mala!” Lafayette tantrums. “You’re mala! Both of you are mala!”

Laurens and Hamilton grin at each other. It’s a secret thing – a private joke shared between the two of them. Somehow, Laurens feels like it’s more intimate than anything else they’ve already done.

Lafayette and Hamilton continue their game and for a while they lapse into relative quiet, during which Laurens actually does his work. Every so often he sneaks a glance at Hamilton, waiting for it to feel weird. But it never does. Hamilton is as easy around the two of them as he is when it’s just them, laughing at Lafayette’s fumbles and joining in on the gentle poking fun as if he’s known the both of them for years. As if they’re real friends – as if Hamilton broke into Laurens’ apartment with his own spare key to raid his fridge and use his chessboard and sit around spouting nonsense with his best friend like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

At long last, Lafayette loses. He does so with theatrically ill grace, throwing himself into his chair and scowling with his arms folded over his chest.

“Incredible,” he shakes his head in disbelief. “I think you are maybe the only person I have ever played who can be four pawns down and still win.”

“Like Milo Minderbinder,” Laurens supplies idly, underlining something on his page.

Hamilton looks over his shoulder to frown at Laurens. “Excuse me?”

Laurens blinks at him. “From Catch 22,” he elaborates. “You know. The guy who can buy eggs for seven cents and sell them for five but still make a prof...”

He trails out, realising a little too late that this means absolutely nothing to Hamilton. “Come on,” he insists weakly. “You must have read it.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“What the fuck!”

“It’s not _that_ good, Laurens,” Lafayette says sniffly, clearing away the board.

“English isn’t your first language, stuff gets lost in translation,” Laurens snaps.

“You can’t just say that every time I don’t like something of yours.”

“Your taste is bad then. Seriously, it’s like…the funniest book ever. Ok, hold on. Wait a sec.”

He gets up and hurries off to his room, leaving Hamilton looking bemused and Lafayette exasperated. When he returns he has the book with him, which he thrusts forcefully at Hamilton.

“You gotta borrow it,” he tells Hamilton in no uncertain terms. “Trust me. It’s probably my favourite. And if you don’t like then that’s on you.”

“Wow, no pressure then,” replies Hamilton, taking it from him a little cautiously. “Er…thanks. I’m not gonna lie, I’m not really a big literature person. I haven’t read fiction in a while, and there isn’t all that much I like.”

“You’ll like this,” Laurens insists.

Hamilton slips the book in his bag. Then he gets to his feet, lifting his green coat off the couch.

“I should probably get going,” he tells the room, seeming a little unsure of who he’s talking to. “Thanks for the game, and again for having me. I’ll see you both around, I guess.”

“Take a mendiant on your way out,” Lafayette says, waving over his shoulder at the fridge without looking up.

Hamilton waves them goodbye, then leaves. The door closes behind him, and there’s silence once more.

Seconds pass. Lafayette blinks innocently up at Laurens. “What?”

Laurens hits him with a cushion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year!!! Sorry for the slow update but i just got a big important essay out the way so now i have a more free time until exams. sorry also that not much happens in this. Also sorry for my bad Spanish
> 
> i'll stop now. hope you all had lovely holidays!


	7. Chapter 7

Laurens is in bed, watching the 1995 _Pride and Prejudice_ and halfway through his second burger when he gets a text from Hamilton.

_Alexander: So turns out this book actually rocks??_

Laurens almost drops his fork, spilling pasta over the sheets in his haste to reply.

_John: WHAT DID I SAY_

He pauses the movie, heart quickening as the three dots dash across the screen.

_Alexander: I take back all scepticism._

_Nah for real – I wasnt trying to be edgy when I said it takes a lot for me to enjoy fiction. im just super impatient and tend to get annoyed quickly. But I’m genuinely really enjoying this!_

_John: :) :) :) feelin so valid8d rn_

_which bit u @ ?_

_Alexander: Dobbs just went crazy and hijacked the plane controls_

_John: wow already?? u read that quick_

_Alexander: Yeah, I’m a fast reader_

_John: whos ur fave character?_

_Alexander: Milo minderbinder, absolutely. i see myself in him. Especially when he becomes mayor and tries to buy all the Egyptian cotton in existence_

_John: lmao. just wait till he becomes caliph of baghdad_

_Alexander: No spoilers!!!_

_John: sorry sorry_

_im glad u like it. i thought u might, it seems like ur thing_

_Alexander: Mm. Not sure what my thing is, but u were right. Thanks for lending it._

_Gonna get back to it now. talk to you later x_

_John: np. enjoy x_

Hamilton goes offline and Laurens watches the icon fade with a smile on his face. He tosses the phone to one side and unpauses the move, still grinning fifteen minutes later.

*

“Ok, but let me just see how you’re doing.”

_“No.”_

“Come on, just let me _see.”_

“I told you, Lafayette. I’m not interested in it anymore.”

“I won’t _message_ anyone, just let me swipe. Come on John, I just want to play!”

Laurens sighs, reluctantly taking his phone out his pocket. Lafayette releases a peal of delight, opening up the Tinder app and immediately skimming through.

“No messaging,” Laurens warns him again.

“Yes, yes,” Lafayette tutts impatiently. “Although I have to say Laurens, I do not understand why you don’t just try your luck. There are some very handsome people you have matched with, I did not realise this campus was quite so good looking.”

“Yeah, well,” Laurens sighs for what feels like maybe the hundredth time. “I guess I thought I could do the whole…sleeping around thing. But now I’m thinking it’s not really for me.”

Lafayette raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps it is too soon to say that,” he says. “Since you have never had a slutty phase.”

Laurens blushes prudishly at the idea. “Yeah, well, neither have you,” he retaliates. “And you’re always saying how you’re such a One Man One Girl kinda guy. How do you know, if you’ve only ever slept with Adrienne?”

Lafayette tilts his head concedingly. “Touché,” he accepts. “Even so. I do not think it would hurt to stretch your wings a little. Sow your wild oats. Chase some tail.”

“Stop.”

“Discuss Uganda. Tread the primrose path.”

“As great as all that sounds,” Laurens cuts him off, annoyed. “I don’t think I’d get the same kick out of it if I wasn’t…you know. If I wasn’t into the person. I don’t know, maybe I’m just romanticising. Even so, I know it’s not like we made any kind of agreement or anything, but it would still feel a little weird to step out on Alexander like that.”

“Why, when he is almost definitely stepping out on you?” says Lafayette, swiping idly.

“Whoa, hey, what?” asks Laurens, crestfallen. “Oh man, what have you heard?”

Lafayette glances up from Laurens’ phone, suddenly realising what he’d just said. “Oh,” he exclaims. “Nothing.”

“But you think he’s definitely sleeping with other people?”

“…No…”

Laurens glares at him. “Then why would you say that?”

“…Dramatic effect?”

Laurens rolls his eyes.

The queue dwindles, another minute finding them in front of the counter. Hamilton’s on shift, the green barista apron tied neatly around his small waist. His hair is back in its ponytail, two curly strands escaping its band and framing his elfin face, glowing in the thin stream of early morning light. He smiles sunnily at the both of them as they approach.

“Morning boys,” he greets chirpily. “What’ll it be? Wait, don’t tell me. One black Americano and a Chai Latte, regular. Am I right, or am I right?”

“With cinnamon,” Lafayette adds.

“How’s your morning so far?” Laurens asks, ignoring Lafayette wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“All the better, espressily for seeing you,” says Hamilton charmingly. “Oh, hey. I’ve got something for you.”

He reaches beneath the counter, emerging with a book which he hands to Laurens.

“The Master and Margarita,” Laurens reads, taking in the black cat on the cover with interest. “I think I’ve heard of this.”

Hamilton nods. “One of the few novels I could really get into. It’s probably my favourite, thought I’d repay the favour.”

“No kidding,” says Laurens, thrilled, turning it over to read the blurb. “This is a translation?”

Hamilton nods again. “I read it in Russian,” he says. “You don’t have to.”

Laurens laughs. “Thanks.” He slips it into his bag.

“Hey,” calls a disgruntled voice from further down. “You’re holding up the line, here.”

“Looks like someones in a _tamper,”_ Hamilton retaliates, quickly handing Laurens and Lafayette their coffees. “Whoops, better get moving before we _grind_ things to a halt. Have a grand-day, Laurens. Lemme know what you think.”

Laurens and Lafayette thank Hamilton, moving away quickly to keep from causing further annoyance.

Once out of earshot Lafayette turns to Laurens, raising an eyebrow significantly. “Wow, book trading?” he says. “Casual yet implicitly homosocial use of surnames? Looks like you have taken your relationship to the next level.”

“I guess so,” Laurens muses, remembering what Hamilton had said in his room a few nights ago. “I think we’re becoming friends.”

The raised eyebrow becomes even more pronounced. “Is that a good idea?”

“If it isn’t, it’s your fault,” Laurens retorts. “You’re the one who invited him over and confused all the boundaries and whatnot.”

Lafayette has the decency to look ashamed, if only for a second. “Fair enough,” he concedes. “Mes excuses, encore. But are you not worried that you will…how do you say…seize the feels?”

“You know how to say ‘implicitly homosocial’ but not ‘catch feelings’?”

“I had a very specific education.”

“Feelings or not,” Laurens continues. “I like this way better. It feels nicer than sleeping with a stranger, and knowing you don’t mean anything to one another.”

“So you are going to keep sleeping with him?”

“Sure,” Laurens shrugs. “I mean, we’ll keep it separate from when we’re hanging out,” and when Lafayette looks sceptical, “It’ll be fine. I spent half my life and my entire adolescence practicing repression. I know how to compartmentalise.”

Lafayette cringes in a way that still manages to convey sympathy. “Weird flex, but ok.”

Laurens fishes the book Hamilton gave him out his bag and flicks through. A small piece of paper flutters from the pages and onto the floor, he bends down to pick it up.

“Awww! He put in a free coffee token!” he grins, lifting it aloft. “And he drew a little _smiley face_ on it oh my God what the hell, how adorable.”

Catching sight of Lafayette’s face he breaks off, stuffing the coupon into his wallet. “I mean,” he amends in what he hopes is a more masculine note. “What a cool guy. Great pal, very, very good buddy.”

Lafayette sips his coffee, eyebrows raised high over the rim. Says nothing.

*

_Alexander: Hey. You free tonight? x_

_John: sure. u wanna do something? x_

_Alexander: Yes pls :)_

_John: mine or urs_

_Alexander: idm_

_John: i’ll come 2 u_

_Alexander: Ok :) :)_

_9ish?_

_John: sure_

_Alexander: *thumbs up*_

“Going out,” Laurens calls to Tallmadge and the boyfriend, grabbing his coat from the top of the fridge.

“With _who,”_ Tallmadge demands, arms folded challengingly.

“Three guesses.”

“Ugh,” Tallmadge rolls his eyes. “I don’t _like him.”_

“You have absolutely no reason to not,” replies Laurens, pulling on his coat.

“Who are we talking about?” Nathan-not-Caleb asks in a lowered voice.

“You know that Alexander guy Laurens met a couple weeks ago?” Ben explains. “Turns out it was Alex Hamilton.”

“Oh! Oooohhh,” Nathan’s eyes widen as his mouth forms the syllable. “Interesting choice.”

“Unless that’s ‘interesting choice’ like ‘adding chilli or cardamom to a dessert is an interesting choice, but one which is complimentary and will pay off well to a sophisticated pallet’ I don’t want to hear it.”

Tallmadge raises an eyebrow. “And you really had no idea till college you were gay?”

Laurens gives him the finger. “Don’t stereotype.”

“I thought he had a girlfriend,” says Nathan.

Laurens’ blood freezes in his veins. “What?”

“Yeah, Kitty Livingston,” Nathan looks at Tallmadge for clarification.

Tallmadge shakes his head. “They broke up a few months ago.”

“Last I heard, they were still together,” Nathan insists. “I saw them not long ago. They didn’t _look_ broken-up.”

Laurens forces himself out of temporary paralysis enough to move his mouth. “They’re can’t still be together,” he says with authority. “Mulligan would know, and he would have told me.”

Tallmadge looks sceptical. “Assuming Hamilton would have told _him,_ of course.”

“Then I’ll just ask him,” Laurens snaps, heading for the door. “God. Not everything is a goddamn mystery, Ben. Not everyone is hiding some deep, dark secret. We’re not living in a noir.”

“Whatever,” Tallmadge calls after him when Laurens is already halfway out. “Might be nice to find out a little bit about him before you go falling head over heels! Just an idea!”

Laurens closes the door loudly behind him.

*

When Hamilton opens his, it’s with a smile on his face.

“Hey!” he greets, stepping aside to let him past. “Who let you in?”

“Janitor,” Laurens replies shortly, hanging his coat on the chair Hamilton indicates.

Hamilton hums thoughtfully. “Not excellent security,” he remarks. “But solves me having to source you a fob.” His brow twitches concernedly, eyes roving over Laurens’ obvious agitation. “Anything wrong?”

Laurens starts to shake his head, stopping upon realising that he can’t let it lie.

“Do you um…” he starts, wipes his mouth. Tries again. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Hamilton’s face undergoes several contortions, as if struggling to translate through a number of different languages. “Do I _what?”_

“Tallmadge…my housemate’s boyfriend says he thought you might,” Laurens mumbles an explanation.

“First, let me ask you a question,” Hamilton crosses his arms over his chest, expression shuttered. “Would I be fucking you if I had a girlfriend?”

Laurens feels heat creep into his cheeks. “…No?”

“Because that would be a pretty scummy thing to do, right?” Hamilton prompts. “Or maybe you just think that kind of behaviour’s to be expected. Did you switch out the book I lent you for one on bisexuals?”

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Laurens raises his palms in defence, instantly ashamed. “Nathan mentioned he saw the two of you together and I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing anything awful.”

Hamilton nods, jaw hardened. “Right,” he says, voice terse. “Well. Rest easy.”

Laurens’ shoulders sag with relief, tension easing from his muscles. He glances uneasily at Hamilton, still looking a little stiff. “I’m sorry,” he says again tentatively. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Hamilton’s face softens. He relaxes, the cool, shuttered expression being replaced by the looser smile. “You didn’t,” he reassures Laurens, reaching out to touch his arm. “I mean, you did a little. But you’re far too cute to stay mad at.”

He wraps his hands in the front of Laurens’ shirt, pulling him down for a kiss. Laurens melts into it immediately, his body only now remembering how much it had missed this over the past few days. Possibly Hamilton’s been too busy even to bother shaving; his jaw is rougher than usual in contrast to the perfect softness of his mouth. Laurens reaches round to grasp the small of Hamilton’s back, thumbs rubbing either side of his spine, drawing him in closer. Hamilton makes an approving noise, pushing himself up against Laurens and running his hand over the side of his neck. He licks the seam of Laurens’ lips, a quick dirty movement that sends heat curling in the pit of Laurens’ stomach. Before he can respond in kind however, Hamilton draws away.

“Mm,” his eyes flutter open, lips curving into a smile as he runs his hands into Laurens’ hair. “You wanna watch something first? I had a really long day, could do with disassociating from reality for an hour or so.”

“Sure,” Laurens replies a little breathlessly, trying not to sound too disappointed.

He plonks himself down on Hamilton’s bed, trying to calm the cresting wave in his abdomen while the latter reaches for his laptop. Hamilton sticks on some comedy show, clearly going for a catch-all to cater both their interests. Unfortunately, Laurens has already seen it (Laurens has seen most things on Netflix) and while he’s perfectly content to have Hamilton’s soft weight against him and feel the vibrations against his side at his frequent chuckles, it doesn’t do much to stop his mind from wandering. Before long Laurens is in his own world, mind pondering a wealth of deep and complex subjects. Suddenly, the question is falling out his mouth before his brain can intervene to stop it.

“Does that happen to you a lot?” he asks. “People assuming shit or saying stuff because you’re bisexual?”

Hamilton starts a little at the unexpectedness of the question. He glances up at Laurens, blinking in surprise. “Uh…I wouldn’t say a _lot,”_ he says carefully. “But…yeah. That tends to be the reason people think I split up with my exes. Or an anxiety that some of my exes had.”

“That’s so lame,” says Laurens.

“Yeah it is,” Hamilton agrees. “It’s more annoying than anything. Like, I have plenty of questionable qualities. You don’t have to resort to my sexuality if you’re looking to moralise.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds before adding, “Also, online people are pretty bad. Like, as soon as you mention you’re into guys and girls they’ll yell at you for wasting their time.”

“Seriously?” Laurens asks, repulsed.

Hamilton nods. “For real,” he affirms. “It’s a scourge.” He skims through his phone quickly, opening up his Tinder messages before passing it to Laurens. “Here, see?”

Laurens baulks at the conversation on the screen, indignation and disgust twisting in his gut. He passes the phone back to Hamilton; as he does so catching sight of a Tinder notification, alerting him to a new message from someone called ‘Kitty’.  

“I never knew biphobia existed,” Laurens confesses. “Like, in a way distinct from general homophobia.”

“Oh yeah, it’s a party,” Hamilton says. “Regardless of who you’re with no one ever takes your intentions seriously. Like, boy or girl they’re either waiting for you to ‘straighten up’ or ‘go full gay’ or whatever.”

“Catch 22,” remarks Laurens dryly, spotting the book by Hamilton’s bed.

Hamilton laughs appreciatively. “Right?” he agrees. _“Total_ catch 22.”

“My dad doesn’t think bisexuals really exist,” Laurens admits. “He says it’s a word for people who are confused or kidding themselves, one way or another.”

Hamilton grunts. “Classic,” he says. “Back where I’m from we have this word, ‘wutless’. It means carefree, feckless. Good for nothing. People used it especially in the cases of anyone who showed the slightest inclination of batting for both teams. I remember my mom once used it talking about a guy at my school…who I actually happened to be dating at the time, haha. I called her out on it and she got super defensive, like ‘what? what did I say’? We got into this massive fight.” He breaks off suddenly, going quiet.

“What?” ask Laurens, looking down at him with concern.

Hamilton shakes his head, recovering. “Nothing,” he answers quickly. “I just…totally forgot that fight ever happened. I’ve never spoken about it before. Literally just flew into my mind. Weird.”

He shakes his head again, as if in an attempt to clear the memory.

“Anyway,” he says, clearly wanting to change the subject. “Your dad sounds fun.”

Laurens give a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, he’s a hoot.”

“Does he know…?”

Laurens shakes his head firmly, a jab of ice going through him at the thought.

“Do any of your siblings?”

“My sister, Marti,” Laurens confirms. “We talked about it. But none of the others.” He hesitates before adding, “I think my mom knew. She used to give me looks sometimes, or say stuff as if she did.”

“How did she die?” asks Hamilton. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Cancer. What about yours? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Dengue fever,” replies Hamilton tightly. “She was visiting relatives from another island. I got it too, it’s not usually fatal.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“Hey, not your fault. You can do me a favour, though. Smite every one of those mosquito fuckers you ever see. Question: why did Noah let them on the ark? Like, what good could they possibly be doing for the eco system?”

“Why are you looking at me like I have the answer to that?”

“You’re a scientist, right? And you’re Southern, you definitely went to Sunday school.”

“Those were the exact kind of questions we were usually prohibited from asking.”

“Aha! So you _did_ go to Sunday school. I knew it, you still have that look of earnestness about you. That incorruptible eagerness to please.”

“I can’t even figure out what that means enough to be offended.”

The conversation ends up spiralling well into the night, the comedy show abandoned. Laurens tells Hamilton a bunch of stupid stories from his high school days, including the period he dated Martha. Hamilton retaliates by regaling him with tales of the worst Tinder dates he’s ever been on, a not unsurprising number of which involve Mulligan’s uncanny ability to show up at the nick of time.

At some point, Hamilton checks the time of his phone and gives a little start.

“It’s 1.15!” he exclaims, shocked. “What the hell, how did we even do that?” he looks up at Laurens, forehead crinkled doubtfully. “Do you still want to have sex?”

There’s a large part of Laurens’ brain screaming in the affirmative. And yet… “I dunno, man. I mean, I’m hardly gonna turn it down. But not to sound lame or anything, to be honest I’m pretty tired?”

Hamilton looks mightily relieved. “Oh good,” he says. “I’m exhausted. Sorry…I don’t want you to be mad at me for luring you under false pretences.”

Laurens laughs. “Don’t apologise. We’ve had long days. School is hard work.”

“School _is_ hard work,” Hamilton nods in agreement. “Ok, great. Glad we’re on the same page. Can we cuddle though? Or is that really lame that I just asked that.”

Laurens laughs again, higher with delight. “Ya, we can cuddle.”

Hamilton climbs out the bed to chuck Laurens some pyjamas, retreating into the bathroom to wash up. After switching places Laurens gets the light, slinking back under the covers held up for him. Once comfortably positioned, Hamilton immediately curls himself round his body like a particularly tactile plant, making himself small to fit himself more efficiently against Laurens’ side. Laurens wraps an arm around his waist, bringing him snugly against his chest and dropping his chin to rest on Hamilton’s curly head. He can smell his shampoo; he buries his face briefly in his hair. Hamilton releases a soft mewling noise, clutching slackly at Laurens’ thigh. His heart is thumping through his thin shirt, Laurens can feel it beating against him. He holds him closely, aware of the steady kinetic humming beneath the warm skin, as if Hamilton were more cat than human and one wrong touch could send him leaping up at any moment.

“Goodnight John,” Hamilton says, muffled into Laurens’ shirt.

Laurens brushes the nape of Hamilton’s neck. “Goodnight, Alexander.”

He feels Hamilton's slight smile against his chest. It's the last thing he's aware of before falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long!!! i'll be better from now on, promise!
> 
> nb. if u liked this u know what to do! don't be a miser with ur love <3


	8. Chapter 8

“Hey, so, help me out with something?” Laurens charges through the opened door, pausing only to throw his parka on the couch.

“‘Hi Herc, how are you?’” Mulligan drawls. “’Hey John. Long day, but not so bad.’ ‘Get a good start on your sewing project?’ ‘A little slow, but there’s always tomorrow.’”

“Uhuh, ya,” Laurens nods along. “That’s good. You know what, I feel like we actually have better conversations when you do them yourself.”

“It’s beginning to feel that way,” Mulligan rolls his eyes, shutting the door behind him. “What’s up?”

“So you know how you’re friends with Alexander,” Laurens starts, throwing himself down next to his coat when Mulligan cuts him off with a raise of his palm.

“Wait wait wait wait wait,” he says, a deep crease appearing between his brows. “I don’t know if this is legal.”

Laurens frowns at him from the couch. “We’re allowed to hang out without Lafayette you know,” he says, a little reproachfully. “It’s okay. I asked him.”

“Not that,” Mulligan waves impatiently, although Laurens observes, more than a little reproachfully, that he doesn’t dismiss the comment. “Talking to you about Hamilton.”

“Oh ya right,” Laurens drawls sceptically, leaning far back against the couch. “Like you don’t talk to him about me.”

“It’s different,” Mulligan says uncomfortably.

 _“How_ is it?”

“He’s my boy.”

Laurens ogles at him, genuinely hurt. “And what am I, your pet hamster?”

 _“Obviously_ you’re my boy too,” Mulligan rolls his eyes again and what is that, the second time in three minutes? Laurens should try setting a record. “But it’s _different._ You me, Laf…we’re a unit, y’know. A team. Hamilton doesn’t have that. I was the first friend he made coming to America. I know everything that’s happened to him since he got here. Makes me feel like I have responsibility for him. You’re my brother. He’s like…my son, or something. You dig? The kid slept on my _couch,_ for Godsake. I washed his dirty underwear.”

“You’ve washed my underwear,” Laurens mutters.

“Do you think I’m happy about that? You think I’m glad to be doing a twenty-one year old’s laundry because his crusty-ass is too busy playing videogames and seeing how many rye crackers he can fit into his mouth?”

“No one _asked_ you to clean up,” Laurens retorts, then, because Mulligan looks on the point of blowing, “Sorry, sorry. Anyway, I hear you, I do. But come on, man. You’re my best friend. And you know Hamilton better than anyone. I’m having a hard time here, I could really use the help. I promise not create a conflict of interest.”

Mulligan eyeballs him levelly for a few moments before grunting. “Fine,” he assents, heading into the kitchen Laurens assumes to make tea. “Talk. But _don’t_ tell me anything that’s gonna make me feel weird, okay, I told you that’s my _son_.”

“Actually…the problem is kind of the opposite of that,” Laurens confesses.

Despite himself, Mulligan looks back at Laurens in intrigue. “Oh really?” and Laurens can hear the curiosity in his voice. “Very well. You may continue.”

“Okay,” Laurens runs a hand through his hair, thinking about how to phrase it. “So…in all the time that you’ve known Alex-”

“Two years three months this September.”

“God. Alright. Not a competition,” Laurens lifts his gaze to the ceiling. “In all that time…has he ever…like…does he hang out with people that he’s sleeping with?”

Mulligan frowns, returning from the kitchen with two steaming mugs and handing one to Laurens. “What do you mean.”

“I mean, is he friends with his hook ups?” Laurens pushes on. “Like, is that a thing that he does?”

Mulligan appears to consider this for quite some time, before at last shaking his head. “No,” he says finally and decisively. “No, he does not do that.”

Laurens feels as though someone sliced through the strings that had been keeping his body taut. His shoulders slump immediately, tension lifting to be swiftly filled by relief.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Cool. That’s interesting.”

Mulligan takes a sip of tea, watching Laurens curiously over the rim. “Whyyyyyy.”

Laurens shrugs. “No reason,” he says, but is unable to keep the smug expression off his face as he raises the mug to his lips, although it’s soon replaced by disgust. “Dude, what the hell is this.”

“It’s broccoli, green tea and fennel,” Mulligan tells him.

“It’s _vile.”_

“It’s very good for your insides,” says Mulligan matter-of-factly. “Flush all theys toxins right on out.”

“Unsurprising, since it tastes like fermented piss.”

“Why are you here?” Mulligan sets his mug down on the table, crossing his arms to glare condemningly at Laurens. “Is it literally just so you could come over and crow about how all you did when you went to Hamilton’s the other night is talked and cuddled?”

“So he _DID_ TELL YOU about that!” Laurens flings his finger out in ecstatic triumph, nearly spilling his mug of piss. “I _knew_ it was significant!!”

“Yes, he told me,” says Mulligan primly, taking another dainty sip. “But only because you left a sock at his and I found it. And before you ask how I know it was yours,” he adds. “No one else would risk the wrath of the Lord to buy something with the word ‘yeet’ printed on.”

“What was he like about it?” Laurens presses on. “Was he…did he seem chill?”

Mulligan pauses for such a long time Laurens almost thinks he’s hoping Laurens will have forgotten he asked the question.

“Okay, to be honest,” he imparts at last, with heavy reluctance. “No. He was very distracted. Anxious. I’d even say maybe a little upset.”

Laurens wasn’t sure what he expected to hear, but Mulligan’s flat tone certainly doesn’t inspire the victory he’d hoped for. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Mulligan replies, equally uncomfortably.

There’s a long stretch of silence filled with Laurens wincing at his tea and Mulligan pretending to enjoy it. Laurens reflects on the revelation, unsure how to take it.

“Is he gonna stop seeing me?” he asks Mulligan at last, hoping his voice isn’t as small as it sounds in his head.

Mulligan takes another measured time to reply and seriously what is this elephant shit, Laurens doesn’t have all day. “I don’t think so,” he says carefully. “He likes you, he’s just freaked out by it. Like I said, he doesn’t usually do this. He might start acting weird.”

“Weird how?”

Mulligan shrugs. Laurens raises an eyebrow.

“Really? Nothing?” he demands. “You’ve got really no precedents for me to look out for?”

“He once clambered out an apartment down a fire escape because he thought a relationship was getting too serious,” Mulligan relates.

“…For real?”

“The relationship was with a forty-year old priest.”

Laurens stares. “You’re kidding.”

“I’ve said too much,” Mulligan decides. “We have to do something else now. Either you help me with my project, or you leave.”

“Wait, wait, one more thing,” Laurens says hurriedly. “Uh…Kitty Livingston? What’s going on there, are they still a thing?”

“Nacho biznesssss.”  

_“Come ooooooooonnnn-”_

“Ok stop,” Mulligan raises his hand with a pained expression. “They went out. It’s over now. They meet up sometimes. That’s as much as I know of that.”

Laurens nods. “Fine.” His mouth feels a little dry, but that’s whatever. “That’s cool. Fine.”

Mulligan is watching him distrustfully. “Are we done?”

“Yeah, we’re done.”

Mulligan reaches over to his sewing machine and slides a large bundle of fabric at Laurens. “Fold each of these pieces carefully into triangles with the seam facing out.”

*

Hamilton doesn’t give Laurens very much time to wonder what acting weird entails as the next day at school, Laurens receives a text.

_Alexander: What are u doing now_

Laurens frowns, considering how strict Hamilton is on not doing things during the day and fairly sure he, like Laurens, has classes.

_John: uhh i just got out a seminar. i have another one @ 2_

_Alexander: Do u wanna hook up_

For a few seconds, Laurens just blinks at the screen.

_John: r u srs? dont u have skl?_

_Alexander: ya. Buuuuut_

_I couldnt stop thinking about u all the way through my marketing lecture and it created a situation and i havent dealt with it in like an hour and im wearing rly tight jeans_

_Sorry, too much?_

Laurens might die.

_John: omg. ok ok_

_where should i meet u_

_Alexander: U know the back of the dutch section in the main library_

_John: the LIBRARY????_

_Alexander: calm down its empty. Im there now. Meet me in 5_

Laurens slides his phone into his back pocket, aware that he’s sweating. Ok ok. This is fine. This is normal. Semi-public sex in a temple of learning. That’s a fine, normal college activity. Laurens rubs his hands over his face, feeling his pulse pounding through his palms and his brain screaming the contrary. _This is insane. Hamilton is insane._ Laurens should just go and get lunch with Lafayette and in five minutes Hamilton will leave and they can both pretend this never happened.

(The image of Hamilton in his lecture, legs clamped desperately together and straining against the denim of his jeans, counting down the minutes of the clock and biting so hard through his pen it breaks the plastic.)

Laurens heads to Dutch.

Hamilton is right, it is deserted. At the very back there’s a small nook, annexed off by a wall of bookshelves. Laurens approaches cautiously and sees Hamilton sitting cross-legged on the stained carpet…reading.

“You read _Dutch?”_ Laurens asks incredulously.

Hamilton looks up at Laurens. “Ja,” he snaps the book closed. “Ze koloniseerden de Maagdeneilanden in de zeventiende eeuw.”

He gets to his feet, grabbing Laurens by the hand and yanking him more completely into the annex. Laurens’ heartrate increases by about fifty percent, pulse already leaping like a racehorse. Hamilton wraps his fist in the cloth of Laurens’ shirt, pulling him forwards into a kiss. The second their lips meet Laurens feels his body go slack, any strung out tension losing out at once to the soft heat of Hamilton’s mouth. He reaches for Hamilton’s hips, chest singing in satisfaction at how well they fit in his palms.

Hamilton pulls back an inch. His eyes are glazed and heavy lidded with desire, his voice husky when he speaks. “You okay?”

Laurens licks his lips feverishly, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder. “What if someone comes?”

“What a disaster that would be,” Hamilton says sarcastically.

It takes Laurens a second to get the double entendre and when he does he is not impressed.

“Can’t you get arrested for this?” Laurens asks nervously.

“Why?” Hamilton grins wickedly, reaching for Laurens’ wrists. “Do you like being handcuffed?”

Laurens almost chokes on his tongue, which really would be a disaster because at that moment Hamilton is sliding his own into his mouth. Laurens moans, scruples falling away as his head falls back against the book shelf. Hamilton’s grip is tight on his wrists, his fingers surprisingly strong. He pushes Laurens back forcefully, shoving a thigh between his leg. Laurens inhales, tries to relax, to calm the storm raging through his veins but it’s very difficult when his body is screaming for the friction and Hamilton’s rock-hard cock is nudging against his hip.

Hamilton sucks on Laurens’ tongue, then his bottom lip before switching to his neck. Laurens gasps and rolls his hips forward, erection rubbing against the rough denim of Hamilton’s thigh.

“We stop when you want me to,” Hamilton whispers into his neck before biting down.

Laurens’ consent is lost in a whimper.

“Do you want me to?”

Another whimper. Hamilton’s fingers tighten on Laurens’ wrists. “I need to hear you, John.”

“No,” Laurens breathes out, then clarifies as Hamilton’s grip loosens, “No, I – I don’t want you to stop. Don’t stop.”

Hamilton bites gently at Laurens’ neck, flicking his tongue over the spot. Laurens keens, grinding down harder onto Hamilton’s thigh. Hamilton chuckles at the inadvertent movement, and Laurens would be embarrassed if Hamilton hadn’t just broken away to speak into his neck.

“You have no idea what you were doing to me,” he purrs, grazing a finger softly up the inside of Laurens’ wrist, causing him to shiver. “Just the thought of you in that lecture. I could barely concentrate, I was so worked up. I don’t think I wrote a single note.”

Laurens can’t summon it within himself to think of a coherent answer, so he settles for panting feverishly. Hamilton sighs, sucking a kiss at the junction of Laurens’ jaw.

“God, but you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, nipping at his ear before falling to his knees. “Keep an eye on the door.”

Laurens’ head falls back against the shelves to bear his throat as Hamilton fumbles with his jeans. The thought of the door reminds him that someone could come in at any time; far from turning him off the anxiety sends a shock of electricity bolting through him, the added risk heightening his excitement.

Hamilton gets his jeans down around his knees, following swiftly with his boxers. He runs the flat of his tongue along the underside of Laurens’ cock, teases the tip with the point. Laurens groans loudly, muffling the sound by shoving a fist in his mouth. Hamilton digs his sharp fingers into his hipbones, teasing him with cruel licks of his tongue until finally, when Laurens is whining with impatience he takes him fully into his mouth.

At the instant touch of heat Laurens slides down the bookshelf, the hand that isn’t serving as gag grasping for leverage. Hamilton grips his hips, thumbs digging into the V. He sucks gently at first, still teasing, then harder until Laurens’ is biting his own knuckles. The hand on the shelf wanders to rest shakily on Hamilton’s head. Hamilton hums in approval, takes him deeper in his mouth almost to the root. He tongues at Laurens’ balls and Laurens moans around his fist, hand tightening in Hamilton’s hair.

There's a long blissful moment, an ageless, spaceless circle where time seems to stop. Laurens senses are piqued, skin prickling and eyes stretched wide as he stares fearfully at the door, terrified that at any point someone might enter and discover them. The only sounds are the distant humming of a fan, the wet noises Hamilton's making on his cock, the creak of the floor beneath his knees. The air around them is like the taut pull of an elastic band, stretched to the pinnacle of breaking point.

Hamilton moves slowly along his cock, eyes flickering upwards to look at Laurens beneath his lashes. It’s so obscene Laurens feels the gaze sear into his stomach, almost as intense as the heated pleasure. His pretty mouth is stretched so wide, dark curls tumbling messily about his face and oh God, Laurens doesn’t think he’ll ever sleep again with _that_ image emblazoned into his mind. The pleasure is rising swiftly, the wet heat of Hamilton’s mouth spreading and curling into his abdomen. He can feel it building, kindling a fire in his stomach.

“Al-Alex,” Laurens withdraws his fist from his mouth to force the word. “I’m – gonna come.”

Hamilton hums in response, the vibrations going all the way up, and sucks harder. The back of his throat bumps Laurens’ tip, pushing him over the precipice. Laurens arches off the bookshelf, flinging an arm frantically behind him for stability. His mind is overcrowded with bliss, for a second he can’t see or hear anything. Hamilton swallows around him, continues licking and sucking him through his orgasm.

When the final aftershocks have subsided, Hamilton gets to his feet. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning forward to press a kiss to Laurens’ slack jaw before tucking his cock into his boxers for him.

“You –” Laurens says dizzily, sluggish brain catching up enough to observe Hamilton’s unflagging erection. “You want me to-?”

Hamilton shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively. “Don’t wanna make a mess. Think I’m gonna go jerk off in the bathroom.”

“Really?” Laurens frowns. “I can…uh…I can help you with that.”

Hamilton tilts his head at him, eyebrow raised. “Don’t you have class soon?”

Laurens glances at his watch and swears, seeing Hamilton’s right. “I feel bad,” he confesses.

“Don’t,” Hamilton tells him, stepping forward to slip his thumbs briefly into Laurens’ belt loops. “I got what I wanted.”

He kisses Laurens on the lips. Laurens cringes at the bitter taste of himself, weirdly aware of a contradictory spark of arousal at the thought.

Hamilton picks his coat and rucksack off the floor, slinging them over his shoulders.

“Hey, I meant to ask you,” he says, running a hand through his mussed hair. “My friend Angelica is throwing a party this Saturday, and she asked me to bring a boy to even out the numbers. Do you wanna come?”

His tone is direct, frank. Laurens doesn’t know why he should be startled, considering he just lured him into an empty public library and sucked his cock dry.

“Um,” Laurens’ thought processes are still taking a few moments to click into gear. “Okay? Sure, I guess. Thanks.”

Hamilton smiles, glitteringly, disarmingly, and Laurens is already so lightheaded he’s terrified he’s going to faint.

“Cool,” he says. “Have a good seminar. Learn hard!”

He hurries off in the direction of the bathroom, leaving Laurens plenty of space to wonder exactly what just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the slow update, i have finals!!
> 
> i have no idea how many chapters this is gonna be i'm just rolling with the punches at this point. Hopefully not too many.
> 
> I see quite a few people leaving kudos and bookmarks on this and some of my other stuff which is rly nice but being honest not likely to motivate me into writing more when i have Many A Thing Going On. i know i am the worstttt updater in the world but apathy is a contagious disease - if you want more pls tell me!!


	9. Chapter 9

Laurens forgets all about the party on Saturday until Hamilton texts him Friday evening, asking if he’s still up for it. At which point Laurens promptly panics, and sends a hasty ‘yes’ without taking a second to check in with his emotions beforehand whether he is, in fact, up for it.

It’s only after the message has been sent, and Hamilton has replied with a detailed outline of his movements that he starts thinking whether going to a party where he knows no one apart from his Tinder friend and possibly a couple of people he recognises but has always been too scared of to talk to is really the best use of his time.

“Whose party is it again?” asks Ben, leaning against the doorframe as Laurens flounders for a shirt.

“Angelica,” Laurens replies. “That’s all I know. That, and the house is a Chelsea brownstone.”

“Ooooh you’re going to Angelica _Schuyler’s,”_ Ben nods his comprehension. “Yeah, that shirt won’t do.”

“Why not?” asks Laurens indignantly, dropping the Monty Python graphic.

“The Schuylers are fancy people,” Ben says authoritatively. “Very in the know. You don’t want their first impression of you to be of some hipster clown trying to be clever and ironic with niche British pop culture references.” Laurens throws the shirt at Ben, who gags. _“_ And this smells like _gym_ , Jesus Christ Laurens.”

“Schuyler,” Laurens repeats with a frown. “I know that name. Philip Schuyler’s fake friends with my dad.”

“Yeah, he would be,” Ben wrinkles his nose. “You richies are always up each other’s asses. Did you not put two and two together from ‘Chelsea brownstone’? You’re gonna have to fight your corner, Laurens. The whole place is gonna be swarming with urban wealth, like that one scene in Titanic.”

Laurens shrugs. “They’re not richer than my dad,” he replies. “You’re forgetting how I grew up. I don’t need Kathy Bates to show me which fork is which.”

“City rich is different to country rich,” Ben insists. “They’re gonna be like ‘Property margins in Soho have increased by 25%! Due to the rise of Russian oligarchs, I’m thinking about investing in shares. Did you see that exhibition at the Met?’ And you’re gonna be all like ‘Oh ho ho, fallow is so hard to plant in wintertime. Here’s a video of my massive dog chasing a rabbit through the hay.”

“Okay first of all, fallow is not a _crop-”_

“See, there you go! You’re gonna be saying shit like ‘fallow is not a crop’ and before you know it, they’re buying interpretative dance tickets without you.”

“-Secondly, liquid wealth is all very well for show and conversion into fast cash,” Laurens continues. “But it’s inherently unstable and ultimately meaningless unless put away into tangible assets such as land and property.”

Tallmadge’s stare is a mix of horror and disgust.

“Alright, now you’re starting to sound like a very different Leonardo DiCaprio character,” he says.

 Laurens throws another shirt at him.

“Besides,” Laurens goes on. “If anyone’s the Jack Dawson in this scenario, it’s gonna be Alexander. I mean, if you’re right and this thing is literally gonna be a power vacuum for the urban rich and white then surely a brown immigrant on bursary is about to feel more out of place than anyone else.” He pauses, a possibility suddenly occurring to him. “Hey, that’s probably why he invited me, because he’s nervous and needs a friend. Aw.”

“Hm yeah, probably,” says Tallmadge sceptically. “Or he just wants something to do when he gets bored of speculating on Blair Waldorf’s new nose job.”

Laurens tilts his head with a frown. “Who is that?” he asks. “Do they go to Columbia?”

Tallmadge snorts.

Eventually, Laurens settles on a pastel button-up that he hasn’t worn since first year and his most expensive jeans, the ones that Lafayette once said gave him “confusing feelings”. When he arrives at Hamilton’s accommodation he sees that he had guessed the dress code correctly; Hamilton looks immaculate in a paisley shirt and chinos, his hair painstakingly styled. He’s even laid his edges.

“How long did that take?” asks Laurens, gesturing to his temples.

“About five minutes,” Hamilton replies. “An hour if you count how long I spent watching tutorials.”

“It looks nice.”

“Thanks,” Hamilton’s eyes rove appreciatively down the length of Laurens’ body. _“_ You dressed _up.”_

Laurens looks down at himself, self-conscious under Hamilton’s gaze. “Ya, well,” he says uncomfortably. “Tallmadge had me stressing everyone was going to be fancy. Didn’t want to make you look bad by turning up in a flannel.”

Hamilton laughs, locking the door behind him. “You’d look just fine in a flannel,” he purrs, glancing flirtatiously at Laurens from beneath his eyelashes. “But thanks, I appreciate it. I don’t know about fancy. Angelica is fashionable, but she rarely expects anyone to rival her taste. I try my best, of course.”

“Of course,” Laurens concurs, not really knowing what he’s agreeing to but wanting in on the coterie. “How do you know each other?” he asks as they set off towards the bus stop.

“Econ, freshman year,” Hamilton explains. “I met her sisters through her. The family basically adopted me, I spent last Christmas with them.”

“Wow,” says Laurens, taken aback by the intimacy. “That’s so nice.”

Hamilton nods. “It’s good to have people you can count on,” he admits. “I’m sure you feel the same about your group.”

“Isn’t it a little different with girls, though?” Laurens sends Hamilton a nervous glance, hoping his tone disguises the real question as well as the anxiety beneath it. _Did you ever want to date one?_

Hamilton frowns at him, as though trying to see what he’s getting at. “Not really,” he says bluntly, and turns away.

The bus comes. Hamilton and Laurens climb on, choosing seats to the back. As soon as he sits down Hamilton begins to bounce his leg, so violently Laurens can feel it vibrating through the seat. He wonders whether it’s nerves or adrenaline, whether he’s anxious or simply mentally preparing himself.

About twenty minutes later, the bus draws into Chelsea. Hamilton hops off and begins to lead the way with the confidence of someone who has made the same journey many times before. Laurens follows with trepidation. He’s beginning to conjure a very specific image of these three sisters. Kind of like the Gorgons from Greek mythology, mixed with the snobby relatives of a Bronte novel. He feels sort of like he’s been lured into a trap, like the Schuylers have ensnared him under false pretences in order to pick him to pieces as to why he’s not good enough for their adopted brother/prospective love interest. Despite what Tallmadge says, he grew up in this world. He knows how people single out potential candidates for marriage, young as they are. Often parents prepare for the same even younger, as happened with him and Martha. It’s not impossible that Hamilton’s staying with the family over Christmas, innocent as it sounds, might have been in the interests of grooming him for something more permanent.

They arrive at an enormous brownstone. The heavy bass of music and chatter of people’s voices can already be heard from outside. Instead of knocking, Hamilton pulls out his phone.

“Hey,” he says when the call picks up. “We’re here.”

Seconds pass, during which Laurens holds his breath. Then the door is opened by a flawlessly made-up girl with dark hair – dressed, Laurens is inclined to believe, very fashionably.

“Oh good,” says Angelica Schuyler, stepping aside to let them pass. “I was beginning to think you got waylaid.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Hamilton replies, barely stooping to kiss her cheek. “Ange, this is John.”

“Thank you for coming,” says Angelica, giving him a brief one-armed hug. “I told people to bring men, but it’s still super unbalanced. I hope you’re not one of those boys who are uncomfortable around a lot of girls.”

“Uh…” trails Laurens, unable to affirm or deny, it being very rare that he’s around a lot of girls. His attention is distracted by Hamilton, who clearly does not suffer from this particular problem, having immediately spotted someone he knows and bounding off to greet them.

“Here, come this way,” Angelica seizes him, long nails digging into his arm with surprising strength. “Alex, kitchen!” she yells over her shoulder before leading Laurens in that direction.

The kitchen is large and beautiful, the tasteful décor interrupted by several people seated on the marble countertops. Angelica makes a beeline for the island currently serving as a bar, supporting a huge assortment of drinks. “What can I get you?” she asks Laurens. “Beer? Whiskey? Rum? Vodka? Absinthe? Gin? Tequila? Vermouth?”

“Whiskey is fine,” replies Laurens, a little dazzled by his options.

“Scotch or Bourbon?”

“Bourbon, please.”

“Patriotic,” Angelica pours him a glass and hands it to him. Laurens takes a long sip. It’s not Michter’s, but it’s definitely not bad.

Angelica watches him amusedly. “Don’t you want coke with that?”

“…Huh?”

“Ca Cola, I mean.”

“Oh,” Laurens’ cheeks heat up, feeling like he’s made a social faux pas. “…Sure.”

“You don’t have to,” Angelica assures him. “I just don’t want people getting totally fucked in my parents’ house.”

“No, yeah, of course,” Laurens nods, still embarrassed. “Coke would be great.”

Angelica turns to get him the bottle. Desperate to overcome the picture of awkward nobody who combats social discomfort through excessive drinking, Laurens casts about for something else to say. “Where are your parents?” he asks.

“Beijing,” Angelica replies. “My dad’s on a business trip, and mom’s visiting her folks. They said I could have people over so long as we don’t trash the place.”

 “Sounds fair,” Laurens nods, wondering what his own father would say if he or his siblings ever dared to voice throwing a party while he was away. “I think my dad knows yours.”

“Really?” Angelica tilts her head interestedly. “What’s his name?”

“Henry Laurens.”

“Oooooh yeah,” Angelica’s bright pink mouth forms a perfect circle. “The Senator, right?”

Laurens nods grimly. “Ya,” he sighs. “It’s a barrel of laughs.”                                         

Angelica looks at him sympathetically. “My dad’s thinking of running for Congress,” she tells him. “I feel your pain.”

“Your dad isn’t a Republican though, is he?”

“True,” Angelica concedes with a bob of her head. “Gotta be grateful for small mercies. Oh, there you are,” she grabs the arm of a girl walking past, also dark-haired with very similar features. “Lizzie, this is Alex’s friend, John.”

“Oh! Hi,” the girl’s smile is bright as she extends her hand. “I’m Eliza, Ange’s sister. We’ve heard so much about you.”

The words cause a delighted stirring in the pit of Laurens’ stomach; before he can chase up on them however, Hamilton has reappeared.

“Wow look at that,” he says, slinging an arm around Eliza’s shoulders. “Three of my favourite people in one space.”

Despite the awareness that Hamilton is just being flattering, the delighted feeling intensifies. Angelica and Eliza, however, look unimpressed.

“Are you telling tales?” Hamilton asks.

“Not everything is about you, you know,” Eliza informs him matter-of-factly.

“No, but are you?”

“We were just getting to know John,” Angelica tells him. “Don’t you ever feel ashamed? Corrupting a Senator’s son, how ever do you sleep at night?”

“Everyone’s fair game on Tinder,” Hamilton shrugs, grinning at Laurens who instantly blushes. “And very well actually, thanks for asking. You should try downloading it, then maybe you’d know.”

“Ugh. No thanks,” Angelica pulls a face, adding to Laurens, “No disrespect.”

“Angelica is in what we like to call, a ‘dead end relationship’,” Hamilton informs him.

“I don’t like to call it that, _you_ like call it that,” Angelica retorts hotly. _“You_ like to put words in my mouth. And I’ll thank you not to do so in front of strangers.”

Hamilton shrugs. “Sorry,” he says, although he doesn’t look it. Despite the heat there’s no real tension to the exchange. Laurens gets the feeling that they’ve done this dance many times before. Like maybe it’s a show, put on for an audience’s entertainment.

“Anyway,” says Eliza smoothly, turning to Laurens. “Alexander says you’re interested in veterinary.”

“Uh,” Laurens shoots a glance at Hamilton. “I’m not sure why he said that. I was toying with the idea for a little while, but I think I’m gonna declare Political History and go into law.”

Hamilton wrinkles his nose. “Really?”

“Don’t be rude,” Eliza scolds.

 “I’m not!” Hamilton raises his palms defensively. “I just meant you didn’t seem that into it. And can’t you just see this guy feeding a bottle of milk to a lion cub or something? I just feel like you’d be really in your element there.”

“It sounds like you’ve given this more thought than I have,” Laurens says teasingly.

Hamilton shrugs. “I’m only human.”

“Conservation would be amazing though,” Eliza asserts. “It must be so great to get up in the morning every day and know that what you do is actually helping.”

“What do you do?” Laurens asks her, partially to redirect attention away from himself.

“Social anthropology,” Eliza answers. “I’d like to work for an NGO.”

“Eliza is very altruistic,” Angelica explains. “Unlike me and Hamilton,” she smiles confidentially at him. “Too much mean streak.”

“Hey,” Hamilton frowns. “Speak for yourself. I’m a fucking delight.”

“Alex,” a very good-looking girl with curly hair appears suddenly behind him, putting her hand on his arm.

Hamilton turns, and seeing who it is pulls her into a hug. “Hey!” he kisses her cheek as he had Angelica’s, gesturing to Laurens. “Kitty, this is my friend John.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kitty inclines her head politely before readdressing Hamilton. “We need you in the other room. Jefferson is being high-key racist again.”

Hamilton turns an indignant expression on Angelica. _“Why_ did you invite him?!”

Angelica shrugs. “I needed to provide entertainment, and couldn’t afford the magician.”

“Clown, more like,” Hamilton grumbles. “Okay, I’m coming. Just let me fortify myself.”

He pours himself a vodka and lime, downing it in one before gesturing for Kitty to lead the way. Angelica is close on their heels, Eliza nods at Laurens to proceed her before following suit. Laurens trails after them with increased apprehension, aware of his pulse beating palpably at the prospect of having to meet more strangers. It has long since occurred to him that he’d gotten this night completely wrong, and the realisation sends the gears in his head kicking into overdrive. Internally, he berates himself for the presumption that Hamilton invited him out of nerves. Embarrassment heats his insides at the memory of his former confidence. As if Hamilton would ever be out of place _anywhere._ Now, seeing him chatter animatedly with Kitty and pausing only to wave in greeting at other guests, he wonders how he’d been this stupid.

Kitty.

Very pretty Kitty.

Very pretty, ex-girlfriend, most likely talking-to-on-Tinder Kitty.

We’ll worry about that later.

The living room is full of guests; at the back a space has been cleared for dancing, where a very amateur DJ is flipping vinyl records of Curtis Mayfield covers. Laurens is certainly no professional (according to Mulligan, that is) but he’s pretty sure he could be doing a better job. It’s possible that for this reason most people seem to be stood around a talking, a substantial number gravitating to a group near the large fireplace.

Hamilton strides up to the circle, positioning himself near the centre. He crosses his arms challengingly, a sceptical expression already on his face.

“-When in reality, there has been far less displacement of existing residents from gentrifying neighbourhoods than liberal warmongering would have us believe,” the man Laurens assumes is Jefferson is speaking to an apparently rapt audience. “Studies show gentrification neither produces measurably more departures, nor does it make residents economically worse off. If anything, residents see greater wealth and higher incomes. Most arguments against gentrification can be put down to so called ‘truthiness’ – it _feels_ right according to intuition, regardless of what factual evidence suggests.”

“What, so opponents are just pulling claims out their asses, are they?” Hamilton pipes up. “What a shame Thomas Jefferson isn’t always around to educate the world’s leading economists on critical thinking.”

Jefferson smiles thinly at Hamilton. “Emotions always run high around contentious issues,” he replies. “But the facts are even public-housing residents in gentrifying neighborhoods enjoy higher incomes, lower crime, better schools, and higher test scores. A recent New York study reported that even those who experienced disorientation at the change said their neighbourhood was a better place to live after revitalisation.”

“People always use words like ‘revitalisation’ or ‘regeneration’ when talking about poverty,” Hamilton snaps. “As if laziness were the problem, as opposed to impoverishment and disenfranchisement. But if we’re talking ‘facts’, the trickle-down argument for gentrification completely ignores the ‘fact’ that the wealthy invariably bend municipal priorities towards their own ends. Regardless of what cases you’ve been looking at, landlords _will_ find ways to tack on extra fees or use intimidation tactics to get long-established tenants to move, in order to make more money from someone considered ‘desirable’. And you can say it’s unintentional that more often not, those forced out happen to be working class people of colour, but that doesn’t change the fact that economic eviction combined with social cleansing are very much part of the gentrification machine.”

“Short-term, obviously there are going to be some sacrifices,” Jefferson replies impatiently. “But ultimately bringing more commerce to an area inevitably increases the cost of living, and with that higher property values and your friend: property taxes. I shouldn’t have to tell _you,_ Hamilton, that when more taxes are collected from an area, that’s more funding for social programs.” 

“Arguably, that money would be better put to use if it went into public housing, rent regulation, welfare, and strengthening labour unions and social movements that benefit the political ambitions of the urban poor instead of disempowering them,” voices Angelica.

“That sounds suspiciously communist,” mutters someone in the back.

“You don’t make friends by calling everyone a communist, James!”

“The real myth is that the only possibilities for neighbourhoods are gentrification or urban decay,” Hamilton continues. “Gentrification is not inevitable. The government would just rather see the rich capitalise on poor black people than pursue short term policies that would produce a more democratic society.”

“Be that as it may,” Jefferson says smoothly. “There’s a strong thread in all these arguments of quasi-segregation. Rich people ought to live with rich people, poor people ought to live with other poor people and so forth. If rich people move into poor neighbourhoods, it’s called gentrification. If poor people move into rich neighbourhoods, it’s called social engineering. Anything that changes this status quo is suspect.”

“Oh _don’t_ act like you care about changing the status quo,” Hamilton rolls his eyes. “You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

“You can’t deny the possibility that when low-income neighbourhoods see renewed attention from wealthier folks, it enables the kind of integration that has been a goal of housing policy for decades."

“I really can when it relies on the systematic removal of poor black people!”

“Anyone else want to weigh in here?” Jefferson raises an eyebrow. “I think Hamilton’s getting dangerously close to punching me.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure many people here,” Angelica nods significantly around the circle. “Have much right to comment on the experience of poor people of colour.”

All eyes in the circle, including Hamilton’s, shift expectantly to Laurens. Laurens, frozen under the new spotlight, feels his eyes widen.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “I’m not sure I’m…really…I mean, my mom is…was…well, she’s not anymore but…The socio-economic condition of Latin-American peoples, particularly Afro-Boricua is hard to categorise…what with the disparity between urban and rural wealth…” _Oh boy._ He clears his throat again, voice weakening lamely. “…Does anyone want to see a video of my dog getting stuck in a fence while chasing a rabbit through the hay?”

“I do!” chimes Eliza.

Laurens fumbles hastily for his phone as they huddle away from the group. The conversation continues without them. While searching for the video, Laurens glances up to see Kitty, discreetly touch Hamilton’s lower back. The gesture is tiny, still, Laurens feels his insides sink about three feet.

 _Here we go,_ he thinks grimly as the video begins to play, preparing himself for a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the temporary hiatus, i had finals but i got my results (!!) and am now free until the next stage of my life begins in earnest
> 
> next chapter will be soon because i actually have most of it written but party scenes are fun and i like to do justice by splitting them into 2 instead of squishing them into a single chapter
> 
> also sorry because i know that what u probably want is a nice fun stress free fluff devoid of political contention and economic race theory etc but like i just stepped out of uni and maybe this is a last desperate effort to hang on to the safety net of academia and i always do this, i try to write something cute and fun and romantic and it spirals into a treatise so like sorry sorry but i make no promises of change because i genuinely think i am incapable and i will not frontline this stuff it's just a temporary lapse please comment despite this :(

**Author's Note:**

> i may have to increase the rating, again we'll see how it goes
> 
> As previously stated, this is pure unadulterated TRASH, however comments are as always very much appreciated so if you have them to spare and would like to see this continue next time i am seized by a desperate need to procrastinate please do let me know <3
> 
> find me on [the thing](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/)


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